


The Better Angels

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-03
Updated: 1999-12-03
Packaged: 2018-11-10 13:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11127510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Getting our post-Call-of-the-Wild licks in... so to speak.





	The Better Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).
    
    
    Disclaimer: The due South characters remain the property of Alliance 
    Atlantis.  Written for pleasure, not profit.  Intended for adult readers 
    only. Contains sexual situations and strong language.
    
    
    The Better Angels
    
    by Bone & Aristide
    
    December 1999
    
    Disclaimers: Not ours. If they were, this collaboration thing would be
    a lot more difficult, given Bone's possessive nature and Aristide's mean
    streak. 
    
    Notes: Enormous thanks to Crysothemis, Dawn P, and Kat for superfine
    beta and enthusiastic support. 
    
    Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
    
    Rating: If we do our job right, NC-fucking-17.
    
    Summary: Getting our post-Call of the Wild licks in...  so to speak.
    
    Feedback: Is encouraged! Write us at and
    
    ***************************************
    
    "My demons were shouting down the better angels in my brain" -- Aaron
    Sorkin 
    
    ***************************************
    
    A bar is a bar is a bar.
    
    Okay, so it wasn't exactly poetry. Still, it had a ring of truth to it,
    Ray decided as he squirmed on the wooden bar stool. Didn't seem to matter
    where the bar had parked itself, the damn seats were all the same. He'd
    never really had an ass made for bar crawling. Not enough padding. Not
    enough meat to him. Give him a nice cushy booth in a diner any day. Of
    course, they hardly ever pulled good draft beer in diners, and there
    was definitely something to be said for *that* at the end of a day in
    the dog-sled. Should probably have ordered some hot buttered rum or something,
    come to think of it -- sounded disgusting, but the operative word there
    was 'hot'; the beer just seemed to be chilling him inside, and he hadn't
    warmed up the outside yet. 
    
    Ray sighed, and drained his glass. Whatever. Give him a couple more beers
    and he'd be feeling just fine, toasty fine. 
    
    Yeah, a couple more beers would probably do it.
    
    "Hey, how about another beer over here?" he called out. Might as well
    have said it in Swahili, for all the attention it got him. 
    
    He looked around. Okay, maybe this bar wasn't *quite* like the others
    he'd known. 
    
    When he and Fraser had pulled into this little pissant town about an
    hour ago, the first thought that had come to Ray's mind was that they'd
    wandered onto a movie set. A Western-on-the-Tundra movie set, circa 1870.
    Wooden sidewalks butted up against what appeared to be a dirt street,
    hidden underneath a half-frozen cover of churned slush. Men bundled in
    layers of fur wandered in and out of what looked like the only public
    building in town, the town saloon. An honest-to-God saloon. 
    
    It might have been interesting, even kind of weirdly cool, if he hadn't
    been so wiped out that the whole thing looked like an hallucination.
    Every time he blinked, he expected everything to go back to flat white,
    and every time it didn't was a new shock. 
    
    A *good* shock, though; no question about that. The lure of light, warmth,
    and an indoor toilet couldn't be ignored. Ray had assured Fraser he'd
    be just fine; that he'd wait for him while Fraser went to find a place
    for them to spend the night. A night not in a sleeping bag on the ground
    sounded almost as good as the chance to whiz without writing something
    in the snow. 
    
    So Fraser'd left him there with a wave, and Ray'd hollered after him,
    "I'll order you a...  what? Sarsparilla? Root beer?" 
    
    How many places like this had he walked into? Too many to count. He had
    the cop walk down, he thought. The don't-fuck-with-me walk, Chicago version.
    A little tough to accomplish in snow pants, but not impossible. He'd
    peeled off his outer layers, unraveled his scarf, and tugged off the
    knit hat that gave whole new levels of meaning to the term "experimental
    hair." Having shed his outdoor trappings, he'd felt ten pounds lighter
    as he bellied up to the long wooden bar and plopped himself on a stool.
    
    Nobody paid him a bit of mind. Not even the bartender, at least not once
    he'd slid a cold one down the bar to him. He'd probably drunk it too
    quick, Ray decided, feeling a nice warm beer rush heat his cheeks with
    a slow, tingling burn. 
    
    He felt...  strange. He kept leaning right, then left, his body still
    on dog-sled auto pilot. He felt it in his sleep -- the pull of the dogs,
    the rocking, the speed. Like being on water, going too fast. Almost like
    having sea legs. He wobbled, sometimes, getting up, walking on his own
    two feet again. The sled had started to feel like home to him. He'd made
    himself a comfy little cradle in it, stacked with blankets, and with
    Fraser standing behind him, half the time he only figured out he was
    cold when they stopped to rest the dogs. Then he'd run beside for awhile,
    or okay, to be truthful, behind -- Ray plus snowshoes still equaled a
    lot of face-down time in the white stuff. Soon as he got the hang of
    driving, he'd let Fraser do the sitting and he'd do the mush-mush thing,
    but the dogs just looked at him funny the few times he'd tried it, so
    Fraser pretty much stayed in the driver's seat. 
    
    Fraser didn't seem to mind, and Ray had to admit they covered more miles
    that way. 
    
    Fraser didn't seem to feel the cold at all. Thinking back on those first
    few awful days -- what he could remember of them -- Ray thought maybe
    he'd started to get used to the cold, too. What did they call that? Acclimating?
    Maybe he'd started acclimating. 
    
    Like today. They'd been on the sled all day -- Ray down front, Fraser
    behind -- but only now, with a beer in his belly and his scarf gone,
    did Ray feel the cold, a shiver of air brushing up the back of his neck,
    raising the hairs on his arms. He leaned back, automatically seeking
    the solid warmth of Fraser behind him, but all he did was lose his precarious
    balance on the stool and flail wildly for a minute before righting himself.
    
    His cheeks went from tingling to flat-out fire. Great. Dork city. Way
    to make a first impression on the local yokels. 
    
    It felt weird not to have Fraser in sight, in touching distance. After
    a couple of weeks like that, he'd gotten to where he liked it, liked
    knowing all he had to do was move his hand, or tilt his head back, and
    he'd hit some part of Fraser, steady there behind him. Except for heeding
    the call of nature, they hadn't been out of each other's sight for almost
    two weeks now, ever since they left the Mountie camp, on the start of
    their big adventure. 
    
    The Big Adventure. Looking for the hand of Franklin, whoever he was.
    Ray never could keep it all straight. Mostly, it had seemed like a good
    way to not go back to Chicago right away. One last hurrah, one last mystery
    to solve. They'd said that before, before the whole boat thing, and changed
    their minds, stuck together after all, but this was different. He'd heard
    (shouldn't have, but couldn't help himself) Thatcher telling Fraser he
    belonged up north; heard Fraser agree. 
    
    Chicago without Fraser was even worse to think about than Chicago with
    Fraser partnered with Vecchio -- the real one, not the fake, sometimes
    one. He hadn't really thought about the possibility that Fraser might
    just *stay* up here. 
    
    Chicago without Fraser. God, what a sucky concept.
    
    So he'd decided to enjoy Fraser without Chicago. Make the most of his
    stock-piled vacation time, chill out a little (a *lot*), eke out the
    last little bit of red ship, green ship, there's no ship like partnership
    before he headed back to No Life Whatsoever back in Chicago. 
    
    Delaying the inevitable, in other words. He had a bad habit of doing
    that. Stella'd had to pack for him, put the boxes in the hall, before
    he finally *got* it. Hammer to the head, that's what he needed. A hammer
    to the head. 
    
    Ray sighed into his empty glass and shivered a little. Civilization had
    sounded good a couple of hours ago, when his nose hairs were freezing
    and his butt was numb, but now he wasn't so sure. Maybe if Fraser were
    here... 
    
    *"How does a night in a cabin sound?"* Fraser had asked. 
    
    *"Like a hymn,"* he'd answered. 
    
    Yeah, a hymn. With him. A night in a cabin, with him. No sleeping bags,
    no layers of polar fleece and wool. Might be warm enough for long-johns,
    or maybe even short-johns (he had no idea if there was such a thing,
    but if there was, it seemed like a good bet that Fraser would own some).
    Might be warm enough to take a bath. None too soon for that, he decided,
    ducking his nose inside his sweater and taking a quick whiff. Maybe Fraser'd
    strip off his undershirt and wash... 
    
    Ray shook himself, like Dief in the morning, getting ready for the day.
    *No point going there, my friend. No point at all.* He didn't really
    know when *that* had happened, either. 
    
    *That*. That was pretty much how he thought of it, when he thought about
    it at all. 
    
    *That*. 
    
    As if it was separate, something outside that had nothing to do with
    him. Like they weren't his thoughts, his reactions, his... whatever it
    was that all of a sudden had him (him! Ray! Ray, as in, Ray, former husband
    to Stella), staring at Fraser, keeping track of Fraser, *thinking* about
    Fraser in ways that didn't quite seem to jibe with the facts of Fraser
    being his partner and his friend, of Fraser being the only thing standing
    between him and two thousand miles of Great White Nothing. 
    
    And that was *that*. He and Fraser and the Great White Nothing, just
    the two of them, all alone with nothing around for miles and miles and
    it made him want...  It made him want... 
    
    "Yo! Can I have a beer here?!?" This time he yelled it much louder than
    he meant to, which from the looks of it was much louder than the walking
    tanks in the room thought he *could* yell. He caught a few mocking glances
    from some of the men (and one woman), who all looked like they could
    tuck him easily under one arm and drag him off without breaking a sweat.
    Oil workers, Fraser had told him; this was an oil worker's town... and
    suddenly he felt sixteen again, trying to get served on nothing more
    than fake I.D. and a cocky attitude. 
    
    The defiance that streaked down his suddenly straight spine felt familiar
    and old, almost nostalgic. Everybody underestimates the scrawny hellraiser,
    after all, and he hadn't jumped right off the mean streets of Chicago
    to get dissed by a bunch of beaver-biting hicks from the *Yukon*-- 
    
    *"Northwest Territories,"* he could hear Fraser say. *"The Yukon is actually...
    "* 
    
    "Beer," the bartender told him in a voice that struck him as something
    like what a rockslide might sound like if it could talk. The glass that
    slammed down in front of him was mostly head. 
    
    "Thank you *kindly*," he sniffed, hoping the numbnut knew sarcasm when
    he heard it. He drowned the rest of the words he could have spoken in
    a huge gulp of foam, cold and bitter -- and that pretty much said it
    all right there, didn't it? Because there might be one hell of a lot
    of cold and bitter around, but right now his face was hot and his chest
    was hot, and the bartender was staring at him like maybe he wanted to
    take things further and that was *great*, that was *just fine*, and his
    empty hand curled into a fist at the thought, solid against the bar and
    ready to swing. 
    
    He coughed around the last of the foam. "What're *you* looking at?" 
    
    The bartender leaned his elbows on the bar and brought his face close
    to Ray's. "Bear bait," he rumbled. 
    
    Guffaws rippled through the place as attention wandered from card games
    and conversations to the budding brouhaha at the bar. 
    
    "Nah," a voice called from behind him. "Look at him. He's a chicken wing.
    Bear would have to be pretty hungry to settle for *that*." 
    
    Ray felt his hair stand on end. Stand *more* on end. Something dark and
    strangely satisfying lumped up in his stomach, and he gave in to it with
    a distinct sense of relief that mixed, odd but perfect, with the hot
    flush of outrage -- he didn't have to take shit like that. Wouldn't take
    it at home, would he? Hell, no. 
    
    The first punch felt good, damn good, arcing out of his tired, wired
    body and connecting with a nice solid thump to somebody's belly, the
    impact sending a shockwave from his wrist right up to his neck. Yeah,
    that first punch was a gooder. Too bad he didn't have time to enjoy it
    before a big paw settled on his shoulder, spinning him into a punch that
    dimmed his lights. 
    
    Time slowed *way* down, then, while he figured out he had a few advantages
    at home that he lacked here, like a gun, for example, and a badge, and
    the fact that in Chicago the average size wasn't something like 6'4",
    240 pounds.  His two fists were no match for what felt like about eight
    from other people. His punches to the gut just hit layers of clothing,
    muscle, fat, all the essentials for life in the wilderness. Like hitting
    a heavy bag, almost -- gratifyingly solid, but without much of a sense
    of giving the bag anything serious to worry about. 
    
    Their punches, meanwhile, smacked kidneys, blacked an eye, and knocked
    the breath out of him. That was the good part. The bad part, he had a
    flashing moment of clarity to recognize, was that window over there,
    the one coming at him, the one he would have gone through face first
    if he hadn't used the one advantage he *did* have -- agility -- and flipped
    himself around so he went out the window on his back, glass everywhere,
    and thumped his head hard on the wooden sidewalk. 
    
    The grinning bartender's face swimming above his made him want to throw
    up, so he closed his eyes. Either they'd finish the job, or they'd leave
    him alone, or Fraser would come along any second now and give him that
    patented Fraser look of grave disappointment, and make him *wish* they'd
    finished the job. He wasn't sure he could stay conscious long enough
    to find out. 
    
    ***************************************
    
    The third time Ray stumbled, Fraser grabbed his arm to keep him from
    pitching forward and wondered which option would be worse for Ray's already-wounded
    pride -- to let him go face-down in the main street slush, or to pick
    him up, toss him over his shoulder, and carry him. 
    
    Ray's arm was solid for a moment under his hand, then quickly shrugged
    away. 
    
    "I'm fine, I'm fine," Fraser heard him mutter, then something garbled,
    something that sounded like "chicken wing, my ass," but surely he'd been
    mistaken. Ray didn't *look* fine, and he didn't sound fine, either, but
    Fraser hated to add insult to obvious injury by suggesting a fireman's
    carry, or worse, coming back for him with the sled, and the dogs he'd
    just settled for the night. Still, when Ray stumbled again, Fraser put
    his hand out, steadied him, then turned so Ray faced him, rocking a little
    on his feet. 
    
    "Ray, our accommodations are at the outskirts of town," he said. "Are
    you *sure* you're all right to walk that far?" 
    
    Ray squinted at him. Well, Ray's left eye did, anyway. Ray's right eye
    seemed to be beyond the mechanics of squinting. "Fuck, Fraser, this is
    what I'm talking about. I'm not *breakable*, get it? Just because I'm
    not Nanook of the North, doesn't mean I can't take care of myself." 
    
    "I never meant to imply --"
    
    "Yeah, yeah, just forget it, all right?" Ray set off again, and Fraser
    gently steered him in the correct direction, as unobtrusively as possible.
    Ray wobbled a bit, but he seemed to have some momentum going, now; and
    Fraser had hopes that it might carry them through. The cabin wasn't more
    than a kilometer or so further. 
    
    Fraser cleared his throat. "You were outnumbered there, Ray. It wasn't
    very...  sporting of them." 
    
    Ray's head twitched. Accompanied by the mild limp it had a strange, Quasimodo-ish
    quality that seemed oddly endearing. "Don't think they were worried about
    that, Fraser." 
    
    "No, I don't think they were."
    
    They continued at Ray's pace, which gave Fraser ample time to register
    the details of the town as they passed through it. It looked like any
    of a dozen towns in this part of the world, populated by people hearty
    enough to work the wells. Fights certainly weren't uncommon, given the
    isolation and the lifestyle, but still, the situation seemed...  strange.
    There was a vague tightness in his chest, easily recognizable as lingering
    regret that he hadn't been there, that he hadn't arrived in time to do
    anything more than claim his friend before the saloon patrons dumped
    him in the street. 
    
    Ray had rallied just about the same time Fraser and the bartender realized
    they'd shared the same algebra teacher in Grade 9. It had been impossible
    to tell from the look on Ray's face which of them Ray was more disgusted
    with, but it had seemed prudent not to linger. With a final farewell
    to the bartender, he'd propped Ray up and the long (longer than it should
    have been) walk to the cabin he'd rented had begun. 
    
    All in all, an inauspicious sort of welcome. But still -- it was familiar,
    it was all familiar to him, and he'd missed it. Longed for it. Could
    still hardly believe that he was here, and that Ray was with him. Ray.
    Nothing familiar here for *him*. This was all new to Ray, as foreign
    as a trip to the jungles of South America would have been -- as 'otherworldly'
    as he himself had felt in Chicago when he first arrived. 
    
    Abruptly Ray stumbled again, righting himself with a mild grunt before
    Fraser could do more than lean forward. He must have gotten used to it
    by now -- Ray had spent much of the last two weeks off balance, on many
    levels, although, truth be told, he had adapted remarkably well, given
    how poorly he'd fared during the first few days. Fraser had thought he'd
    jump at the chance to go back south, to return home, but the chance he'd
    jumped at was going on an adventure, searching for the mythical Hand
    of Franklin. 
    
    He was not unused to surprises, not around Ray; and yet that had surprised
    him. It still did. Surprised and pleased him, in a warming sort of way
    that he hadn't examined too closely, as if to focus on it might cost
    him the gift. Which was just... silly. A ridiculous notion. 
    
    Fraser frowned, picturing Ray doggedly following the sled, as wobbly
    on his snowshoes as a toddler on a hill. He'd quit complaining about
    the cold by the third day. By the sixth, he'd been itching to drive the
    dog team. And now, two weeks out, he'd even gotten the hang of setting
    up camp for maximum comfort with minimum bother. Without a single complaint,
    which in and of itself was some kind of minor miracle. Yes, contrary
    to all expectations he might have had, Ray seemed to be enjoying himself;
    and all Fraser could really do was hope that the contretemps he'd encountered
    wouldn't make him regret his decision. 
    
    Contretemps. Too pleasant a word for the whaling Ray seemed to have suffered.
    It pricked at him, curiosity and solicitousness perfectly mixed, wondering
    exactly what had led to the fight, which of Ray's myriad nerves had been
    plucked like a bowstring. He *should* ask, he knew -- and yet he couldn't,
    not yet, not until he came to grips with his own nebulous feelings of
    culpability, his own vague shame that the homeland he'd been introducing
    Ray to had responded so inhospitably. 
    
    Yet another ridiculous notion. Which he couldn't seem to shake. 
    
    They managed to reach the cabin without further mishap, and Fraser held
    the door open for Ray, who limped in, dropping into the first chair he
    came to. Fraser shut the door on the cold and the wind, and groped for
    the switch of an ancient iron lamp that stood nearby. 
    
    "We're quite fortunate -- all the modern conveniences, Ray," he said,
    turning quickly towards the wood-stove he'd prepared earlier, after seeing
    to the dogs and stowing the gear, so as not to get caught by the reflected
    shine of lamplight over Ray's purpling eye. "I'll have a fire going in
    a moment." 
    
    Proper preparation, the logical course of events, yes, but it meant he'd
    been here, seeing to the practicalities, instead of with Ray; that he'd
    left Ray to his own devices, figuring that new company would be welcome.
    Obviously a misplaced assumption on his part. He stopped talking and
    took refuge in getting the fire lit and the draft adjusted properly --
    only the work of a moment or two, but it was enough. 
    
    When he finished, he turned to see Ray surveying the room, taking in
    the two cots placed in a corner, the small cooking area, and the lean-to
    bathroom, a valuable (if fairly extravagant) addition to the original
    structure. 
    
    Ray said nothing. He could accept that. They had time, after all. Fraser
    knelt and rummaged in his pack for first aid supplies, then turned to
    look at Ray. He was certainly a sight -- one eye bruised, a cut lip already
    swelling. And he was hunched in the chair, as if his ribs hurt. Fraser
    sighed. He shouldn't have left Ray alone like that, in a strange town.
    Ray was his responsibility, even though he knew *Ray* wouldn't want to
    think of it that way. Would probably, in fact, threaten to 'pop him one'
    if he mentioned it. 
    
    "Do you think you need a doctor?" Fraser asked instead. The nearest clinic
    could be as far as a hundred kilometers off, and unlikely to be open
    at this late hour, but if Ray needed to be seen to, well... 
    
    But Ray shook his head. "Nah. Just dose me up with that pregnant mucus
    stuff you got. Worked the last time. I am *not* stripping down for one
    of these yokels." 
    
    Right. Ray would just have to strip down for *him*, then. He stood and
    moved in front of Ray's chair. "Well, in that case, I think you'd better
    let me take a look at you." 
    
    Ray obediently lifted his head, but didn't appear to be entirely comfortable
    with the prospect. 
    
    "Come on, let's get these off you." He tugged on Ray's coat and sweater
    until they were relinquished. When it seemed Ray would stop when he got
    to his layers of shirt, Fraser shook his head and said, "Better take
    those off as well. I want to look at your ribs." 
    
    Now it was Ray's turn to sigh, but he did as he was told and stripped
    to the waist, then wrapped his arms back around himself, shivering. 
    
    "I'll be as fast as I can," Fraser said briskly, crouching in front of
    him. In the low light Ray's skin shone smooth and soft, pale as cream,
    but blurred now with darkening bruises here and there. Fraser shifted
    to one side to let the light fall directly on the bruised areas, and
    leaned forward. 
    
    No broken skin. No unusual swellings. Just a good crop of goosebumps
    and some run-of-the-mill bruises, at least as far as he could tell with
    just a visual check. He nodded, and then swept one of the rough blankets
    off the nearest cot, draping it around Ray's shoulders. 
    
    "The room will warm up soon, Ray. I promise. Please bear with me." He
    cleared his throat, not knowing if he should or could apologize, unsure
    whether or not he just had. 
    
    Ray's head twitched sideways in wordless acknowledgement, and Fraser
    nodded again, leaning in for further examination. 
    
    There was no evidence of grave physical damage, just proof that Ray carried
    all his strength in his energy, his temper. Even exhausted and at rest,
    his body seemed to be filled with a strange kind of dynamism; restless
    and oddly youthful, all sharp angles and pale skin and that strange tattoo.
    His muscles weren't from hard labor, or hours in the gym. They were the
    long, narrow muscles of a runner, compact and lean. The points of his
    shoulders angled into prominent collarbones, his long arms down to elegant
    fingers. Not a boxer's hand, not a fighter's. 
    
    Fraser frowned again, dismayed at the thought of Ray being ganged up
    on, beaten. 
    
    "Ray, if you don't mind my asking, what was that all about?"
    
    Ray stirred, catching Fraser's eye for a moment before ducking his chin
    back down towards his chest. 
    
    "Nothing. It was dumb. Guy looked at me, I said something smart, he got
    pissed, said something dumb. You know how it goes. No, you probably don't.
    Never would've happened to you," he said. 
    
    "What was it he said that made you so angry?" A careful balance here,
    between wanting *not* to push, and needing to understand. 
    
    "Said I was gonna be bear chow," Ray mumbled. 
    
    Fraser had to lean forward to hear him, and balanced himself with a hand
    on Ray's knee. 
    
    Ray leaned back, drawing away.
    
    He seemed to be making Ray uncomfortable. That wouldn't do. He rose to
    his feet, putting a little distance between them, then reached for the
    antibiotic ointment he'd brought with him. 
    
    "Well, you're not," Fraser said, not sure what else to say. "Falling
    prey to a bear is extremely unlikely if you take the appropriate precautions,
    and I'm not about to leave us open to the risk of a bear attack." 
    
    He knew he was approaching the obvious when the subtle was required,
    but he'd never been as good at subtle, and hoped his reassurance would
    be enough for Ray. 
    
    "Said I was a chicken wing," Ray muttered under his breath, even quieter
    than before. 
    
    Fraser pressed his lips together. A *chicken wing*? What on earth...
    ? Ray looked up at him abruptly, uncrossed his arms, and suddenly the
    image made sense. To the beefy crew that worked the wells, a man built
    like Ray probably *did* look a bit on the under-nourished side. Something
    Ray's ego undoubtedly didn't appreciate. The pieces began to fall into
    place. 
    
    For a moment something bubbled in him, a strong rush of feeling that
    was exasperation and apology and intense affection all rolled into one.
    Ray was such a... character. Prickly as anything -- and no less dear
    to him for that. He kept these thoughts carefully to himself, kept his
    face schooled to an appropriate expression of solemnity, and applied
    the salve to the cut on Ray's lip, bracing his hand with one finger on
    Ray's cheek, then examined his eye. "Just a bruise there, I think," he
    said quietly, and Ray nodded. 
    
    "Can you sit up straight for me?" Fraser asked, and with a grimace, Ray
    pulled himself up, sat straight up in the chair, braced his hands on
    the arms, and closed his eyes. 
    
    Using just the tips of his fingers, Fraser traced each rib, back and
    front, paying special attention to any reddened or bruised place. Under
    his hands, he could feel Ray start to breathe harder, feel his heartbeat
    speed up. When he traced the lowest rib, sliding from his side up to
    his sternum, Ray made a sound in his throat. 
    
    "Does that hurt?" he asked.
    
    Ray's eyes flew open. He swallowed once, then shook his head and said,
    "Tickles." 
    
    Hmmm. Ray hadn't flinched, or laughed, or tried to get away, or any of
    the usual responses to an inadvertent tickle. Odd. He pulled his hands
    away immediately. "I'm finished. You do have some bruising, but I don't
    think you've broken anything." 
    
    From the way Ray sank back in his chair, burrowing into the blanket,
    he seemed relieved to hear it. 
    
    ***************************************
    
    "They were wrong about you, you know."
    
    In the immediate and stunning bliss of post-shower euphoria, Ray felt
    utterly incapable of connecting Fraser's words with anything having to
    do with reality. He pulled the rough towel off his head, squinting over
    to where Fraser seemed to be digging various items out of his pack. "Whassat?"
    
    Fraser looked at him, still with that same low-key 'terribly sorry' look
    he'd been wearing since scooping Ray up off the sidewalk. "The... saloon
    patrons. They were wrong. They have no idea of the degree of your tenacity,
    that you're not at all a... chicken wing." 
    
    Oh. That. Ouch. Unbelievable, that he'd actually told Fraser that. He
    put the towel back over his head and started rubbing. "Yeah. Guess I
    showed them, huh? They'll think twice next time before messing with bear-bait--"
    
    "Ray." Good thing he had the towel. That particular pissed-off tone of
    Fraser's always made him smile. "You're not listening. You are *not*
    bear bait. In fact, I would venture to say that you're in better physical
    condition than you have been in all the time I've known you." 
    
    "Too bad that wasn't enough to keep me from getting my ass kicked." 
    
    "You were overmatched, Ray; you couldn't possibly expect to prevail under
    those circumstances--" 
    
    All of a sudden it seemed like too much, just way too much. "Look, just
    stop trying to make me feel better, okay, Fraser? I went into a hick
    bar and I shot my mouth off and got thrown through a window, and then
    you came along and made nice with the locals so they wouldn't whip my
    ass anymore. Mountie to the rescue. Again. We can stop talking about
    it now." 
    
    A deep, heavy sigh. "As you wish."
    
    With the towel over his head he couldn't see, but he felt Fraser pass
    him by on the left, probably going for his own turn in the shower. It
    was a relief. He just stood there, rubbing at hair that had long ago
    gotten as dry as it was going to get, until he heard the bathroom door
    close. 
    
    A quiet click told him that he was alone, so he ditched the towel. After
    his shower he'd struggled into a clean pair of sweats and a thermal undershirt
    -- soft, comfortable clothes that wouldn't bind up on his bruises. But
    although the fabric was well-worn it itched terribly, and it was a serious
    challenge not to just tear them off and scratch like Dief with a nasty
    set of fleas. He supposed it could have been the miracle of actually
    being clean that was making him itch so badly, but that didn't come close
    to explaining the rest of it -- why he was exhausted and couldn't sit
    down, why he was starving and couldn't stand to think about food, why
    all he wanted to do was either pull on his coat and go back to the bar
    and finish what he'd started, or plaster himself up against that closed
    bathroom door and close his eyes and see what his brain could do with
    the image of a wet, naked Mountie. 
    
    Could have something to do with the fact that even scrubbing as hard
    as his sore ribs could stand hadn't erased the feel of Fraser's rough
    fingertips on his skin, skating slowly across his back, tracing his chest,
    gently prodding, almost...  caressing. 
    
    Ray shook his head sharply, then wished he hadn't when his bruised eye
    protested. *Can't go there, buddy. *Don't* go there.* His traitorous
    mind didn't listen, choosing instead to replay the moment over and over,
    and before he knew it, Ray had a hand up under his shirt, tracing the
    lowest rib again, searching for an echo of the feeling that had splintered
    through him at that particular touch. It was weird, a weird thing to
    do, but knowing it was weird didn't stop him -- his hand had a mind of
    its own. Hell, even his *mind* had a mind of its own... 
    
    It tickled, he'd told Fraser. He snorted. Tickled. Right. A certain part
    of him had been *tickled*, for sure. Turned him on is what it had done.
    Turned him on like a light. And Fraser, well, Fraser'd been like Dr.
    Kildare, there, all "I'll be as fast as I can." *Take your time*, he'd
    wanted to say. *Take your time*. 
    
    The sound of the water turning off broke the spell, and Ray yanked his
    hand out of his shirt like he'd been caught with it down his pants. Crazy,
    he thought. All of it. Maybe he'd frozen something after all, on the
    side of the mountain. The thing that kept his crazy thoughts in check.
    Or maybe all his self-preservation parts were working on actually *surviving*
    and didn't have anything leftover to keep his brain from skittering down
    dangerous paths. 
    
    Yeah, he'd have trouble keeping his balance on that one -- it didn't
    seem fair, somehow, that the slippery and dangerous parts weren't just
    out there on the ice. Here he was, safe in a cabin and warm and free
    of the worries of frostbite and sudden blizzards and stray packs of starving
    wolves, and not safe at all. Not at all, because, see, there was this
    one starving wolf who had snuck inside the perimeter, come along for
    the ride. 
    
    His ears pricked up at the sound of Fraser whistling tunefully as he
    dried himself off, and God help him, but it made him want to growl. Maybe
    scratch at the door. Fraser had a soft spot for hurt and hungry things,
    after all; that was what got the best of him, every time... 
    
    Ray shook himself again, hard, until all his bruises ached. Enough with
    the crap, already. No way was he letting Fraser know how he felt. He
    hardly knew how he felt himself. He wanted... *something* from Fraser,
    to be with Fraser, that much he knew. That much was easy. But would Fraser
    want to be with *him*, if he knew that right now, at this exact moment,
    all Ray wanted to do was open the bathroom door, get an eyeful of bare
    Benton Fraser, and maybe get that hand back on his ribs again? 
    
    What would Fraser do? Turn red, turn around, turn him down. One, two,
    three. Elementary. No shit, Sherlock. 
    
    He knew it. He knew it like he knew Fraser -- Fraser, who got all stiff-necked
    and tight when Frannie passed too close. Who stammered at a compliment.
    Fraser, who'd probably gotten laid maybe twice in his whole life, and
    he'd bet the GTO Fraser hadn't been the one to do the asking even then.
    
    Fraser was...  innocent. 
    
    Christ...  If that was supposed to tone down the wild and crazy, it had
    failed. Heat slid up his legs, between them, making him hard. He was
    hot, now, hot with shame and hot with how much the shame failed to put
    him off the idea -- he felt like a dirty old man. His hands shook. 
    
    God, if he thought the *shirt* itched, it had nothing on what those sweats
    were doing to his dick. Ray stumbled back to the chair he'd sat in before,
    pulling the blanket over his lap and clenching his traitor hands into
    fists just as Fraser opened the bathroom door, releasing steam and the
    smell of nice clean Mountie. 
    
    Ray closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and plucked the itchy
    shirt away from his ribs again. Maybe it wasn't the clothes that bugged
    him. Maybe it was the skin he was living in. Stretched too tight for
    all the feeling inside, stretched too thin. 
    
    He kept his eyes closed and listened to the sounds of Fraser pulling
    on jeans, tucking in a shirt, and tried to think cold thoughts. Snow.
    Wind chill. Icicles. After awhile, his dick subsided, but Ray stayed
    in the chair, aching inside and out. 
    
    *That*, that thing he didn't really want to identify, but couldn't shed,
    was getting to be a problem. 
    
    Maybe they'd had the right idea, splitting up for an hour or two. Maybe
    he'd just picked the wrong place. Even in a town this size, there had
    to be some folks to talk to, just regular folks, not beef jerkys like
    the guys at the bar. Maybe all *that*, all those weird feelings, just
    came up because they were spending too much time together. He'd ask Fraser.
    Not about *that*, no, not about that. But about seeing if there wasn't
    some place else to go, people to talk to. 
    
    And he'd take Fraser with him this time. Fraser could talk to anybody.
    
    **********************
    
    Fraser had forgotten just how good it could feel to be clean. When out
    on the trail, it hardly mattered. A strange truth about camping -- after
    the second day, nobody smelled. Or perhaps everybody smelled, but nobody
    noticed over their own particular scent. 
    
    He'd certainly never noticed anything malodorous about Ray. On the contrary;
    if he closed his eyes and tried to pull up a sense memory of Ray from
    their time on the trail, the scent that came to mind was cinnamon, from
    the gum Ray chewed. A good smell. A warm smell. Spicy, not sweet. Much
    like Ray himself. He wondered what his own smell was. Leather and wool,
    maybe, or tea. Nothing as exotic as cinnamon. 
    
    Abruptly he shook himself -- he must be more tired than he'd thought,
    wandering off into pointless speculation and memory. He devoted himself
    again to the task of drying off, and whistled a tune to help keep his
    focus where it should be -- clothes, and then food, and then bed. 
    
    He pulled on clean boxer shorts, then opened the bathroom door while
    he hung his towel up to dry. Cooler air from the room outside washed
    over him, and he shivered at the contrast. He'd gotten soft during his
    time in Chicago. Not soft on the outside, although the nutritional value
    in Chinese takeout and spaghetti probably left much to be desired, but
    soft on the inside. It was easy to become accustomed to indoor plumbing,
    the wonder of warm water available with the turn of a knob. 
    
    Comfort in and of itself posed its own kind of threat... but that brought
    him back to Ray again -- Ray, who had made a great deal of noise about
    not being equipped to deal with the pared-down lifestyle and hard physical
    requirements of life in the wild, and yet had adapted, had found his
    own ways to survive. Ray, who took his comforts as they came and yet
    never seemed to lose his edge. An object lesson -- he could conclude,
    then, that there was no harm in enjoying an amenity or two, as long as
    he didn't come to expect it. 
    
    He found Ray back in the chair where he'd examined him, wrapped up in
    a blanket with his eyes closed -- not asleep, that much was evident --
    but possibly dealing with the pain of his injuries. Fraser made a mental
    note to provide some aspirin with dinner, then added another log to the
    fire even though the cabin had warmed up quite a bit, in deference to
    Ray's huddled retreat into the blanket. Given the temperatures they'd
    endured since they left the base camp, it seemed strange that Ray would
    still feel the need for it, but shock did strange things to the body.
    
    After dressing, he went to the kitchen, pulling out the few groceries
    he'd purchased on the way to the cabin. Canned beef stew, a loaf of bread,
    and apples, which had cost the earth, but seemed worth the price after
    weeks of vitamin C tablets. 
    
    "Ray, are you hungry?" he asked, a formality, really, since he'd already
    started heating the pot. 
    
    "Yeah, I could eat," he heard from the chair in the corner. 
    
    When the meager meal was ready, he set two places at the wooden table
    and called Ray over, watching carefully as he pushed himself out of the
    chair, discarded the blanket on one of the cots and made his way to the
    table. He seemed to be moving better, not as stiff. Under the stronger
    light, his bruised eye looked to be the worst of it. The swelling in
    his lip had gone down some; a good sign. 
    
    The piping hot stew tasted good, and the fresh bread was a treat after
    the trail rations they'd been subsisting on. Ray didn't seem to be enjoying
    the food as much as he was, but maybe his cut lip made it painful to
    eat -- the aspirin he'd pressed on Ray would help, but perhaps he should
    have offered them sooner. Nothing he could do about that, Fraser decided,
    so he tended to his own meal, letting Ray eat in silence. 
    
    After a couple of minutes, he realized Ray had stopped eating, and looked
    up to find Ray's eyes on him. 
    
    "Can I ask you something?" he asked. 
    
    Fraser raised an eyebrow and nodded.
    
    "These the kind of people we're gonna meet everywhere up here?" Ray asked.
    "It's not a problem or nothing, I just like to get a feel for what to
    expect. Thought Canadians were supposed to be polite.
    
    Fraser felt his face heat, chagrined again at the welcome, or lack thereof,
    Ray had encountered. He cleared his throat. "Well, Ray, the wells do
    tend to attract a rather...  rugged segment of the population, and to
    be honest, many of them aren't Canadian, not that that excuses their
    behavior, but on the whole, I haven't found the people here to be overly
    aggressive, no. At least not ordinarily." 
    
    Ray shrugged. "You mean, at least not to *you*."
    
    Fraser blinked. "I only know my own experience, Ray," he said, wondering
    why he suddenly felt defensive. 
    
    Ray took a careful bite of bread, and Fraser winced along with him when
    he hit his cut lip. "Okay, yeah, I get that. Look, I think I'm getting
    the hang of the not-sliding-off-the-glacier thing, but how do I talk
    to these people? It's like they're from Jupiter or something. How come
    you always know what to say?" 
    
    Fraser dipped his bread in the stew, giving himself a minute to gather
    his thoughts. "I grew up with people like this. Naturally, they don't
    seem as foreign to me as they do to you." 
    
    Ray was shaking his spoon at him. "No, see, that's just it. It's not
    just these people. You do this in Chicago, too. Like you got lessons
    in how to say just the right thing, no matter who you're talking to.
    How do you do that?" 
    
    "I haven't given it much thought," Fraser said, then paused. "I suppose
    with most people, it's simply a matter of listening to what the person
    has to say, then answering appropriately. It's not something I do consciously."
    
    Ray nodded, his head bent over his supper again, and they ate in silence
    for a few minutes. When the dishes were empty, Ray stood stiffly and
    limped to the small sink with his plate and bowl, waving off Fraser's
    protest that he'd take care of them. 
    
    "So it's like a game, sort of," Ray said.
    
    "What is?" Fraser asked.
    
    "You, the way you deal with people. You've gotta figure out what they
    want to hear, and then you give it to them. You put it on, like the hat."
    
    Fraser sat frozen in his chair. Was that it? Had Ray hit on something
    he'd never let himself think of? 
    
    "Maybe so, Ray," he said quietly. "Maybe I do."
    
    "Not with me, you don't," Ray muttered, so soft Fraser barely heard it
    over the rush of water in the sink. 
    
    "I beg your pardon?" Fraser asked.
    
    Ray turned to him. "You don't do that with me. You hardly ever tell me
    what I want to hear." 
    
    Fraser looked up, caught in Ray's one bright eye. No, he didn't do that
    with Ray. Didn't turn on that small mechanism inside that filtered the
    words people said to him, that conjured appropriate responses. With Ray,
    he just...  spoke. 
    
    He cleared his throat. "You're not most people."
    
    It wasn't quite what he wanted to say. It didn't say everything he meant.
    But perhaps Ray had his own filter, his own way of listening, because
    his face lightened up, the corners of his good eye crinkling up in a
    smile. 
    
    "That's a true fact," Ray said with a nod, then turned back to the dishes.
    
    Fraser sighed. Ray seemed to be... okay. At least for now.
    
    Perhaps that *was* what he'd meant to say, after all.
     
    **********************
    
    Fraser *breathed* sexy.
    
    It was bugging the crap out of him. But it wasn't like he could ask the
    guy to stop it, right? 
    
    Right. He could hear it now -- 'Hey, Fraser, could you maybe not breathe
    so I can make my boner back off and get some sleep?' Oh yeah -- that'd
    go over *real* well. Although it would solve his problem -- Fraser would
    be out the door and looking for a new place to do his sexy sleep-breathing
    in no time flat, he had no doubt about that. 
    
    Inhale. Brief hold. Exhale. Nice and slow. Almost a sigh. 
    
    And his ears, his ears which *refused* to shut down or tune in to something
    else or just stop listening, kept insisting that it *was* a sigh, that
    each exhale was the sound of some kind of quiet, relaxed pleasure that
    was lightyears away from the weird erotic hell he himself was suffering,
    but pleasure all the same. 
    
    Inhale. Brief hold. Exhale. Nice and slow.
    
    Every fucking exhale sent a rash of heat over his body. If Fraser started
    dreaming and groaned in his sleep, he'd probably come in his pants. 
    
    The two cots in the corner stretched along either wall -- whether to
    save space or to enhance the illusion of privacy he had no idea, but
    the truth was that even with both of them lying with their feet towards
    the corner, even with Fraser far out of arm's reach, there was absolutely
    no way he was going to be comfortable enough to sleep unless he picked
    up his cot and moved it somewhere else... 
    
    Inhale. Brief hold. Exhale. Nice and slow. 
    
    ...Like maybe outside. Like maybe in a snowbank.
    
    The real pisser of the situation, though, was that he'd actually been
    tired when he laid down for the night; tired, and still kind of high
    from Fraser's admission that he wasn't 'most people.' That was some good
    news, right there, that pleased him right down to his toes -- and yeah,
    he felt like a total moron for getting off on it so much, but he just
    couldn't seem to help it. So he'd gone to bed actually feeling pretty
    happy and a little embarrassed and hoping that maybe, just maybe, what
    he'd heard from Fraser would be enough and would keep him from going
    down that other, much more dangerous path. 
    
    He felt like one of those old TV shows, where the guy had an angel on
    one shoulder, telling him to be good, and a demon on the other, whispering
    'bad, be bad, bad's good.' Like they were duking it out, beating him
    up about it, and he wasn't sure which was right, or who he wanted to
    win. And mostly, he just wanted some sleep, and so he'd thought maybe
    that little gift Fraser'd given him would do it, calm the freaking angels
    and demons and his body and his soul. 
    
    But no. It hadn't been enough. In fact, he had to admit that it just
    made it *worse* -- he'd listened to the sounds of Fraser settling in
    for the night, ready to drift away on the stupid but undeniable happiness
    of being here, with Fraser, just the two of them getting some well-earned
    rest, only to find that there *was* no rest for him. His ears had tuned
    in, his mind had revved up, and before he knew it his dick had slammed
    into high gear, twitching and throbbing along with the mellow sounds
    of Fraser The Pure getting his forty winks in. 
    
    Inhale. Brief hold. Exhale. Niiiiice and slowwww... ohh...
    
    Ray sat up before he even knew that he meant to move. Once he was up
    he looked around stupidly -- what the hell was he planning to do, after
    all? If he moved his cot he'd undoubtedly wake Fraser (and have to explain),
    and if he *didn't* move his cot but gave into temptation anyway he'd
    undoubtedly wake Fraser (and just try explaining *that* -- muscle cramp?
    Uh-huh, Fraser, a *real* bad one, lemme show you...) For half a second
    he considered taking himself and his raging hard-on into the bathroom,
    and trying to be quiet about it, but the problem with that was that he
    hadn't even laid a finger on himself yet and already his breathing was
    almost out of control -- a subvocal sort of breathy growl, just waiting
    for things to get going, to evolve into who-knew-what sort of noise.
    Maybe he should just go out to the shed with the dogs and howl at the
    moon... 
    
    Fraser *sighed* again and a hot shudder passed over Ray, rattling the
    cot. He cursed under his breath and got up as quietly as he could, felt
    around in the dark for his pack, and pulled on jeans and two shirts,
    then patted around on the floor until he found his good heavy sweater.
    Cot, no. Bathroom, no. Outside, yes. He'd find a friendly tree to lean
    up against while he took care of business, and if he couldn't find a
    tree big enough to hold up him and his dick, he'd go for that snowbank
    thing and see what kind of hole he could melt in it. After tugging on
    his boots, he fumbled for his parka, but gave up on it when he heard
    the slippery screech of nylon under his hand. Too loud. Hell, it wasn't
    like he planned to be out there more than two minutes anyway. A minute
    and a half, if his dick had anything to say about it. Cold air'd probably
    do him some good. 
    
    It wasn't until he was outside and behind the cabin, comfortably situated
    with his back against the wall of the little shed where the dogs were
    sleeping, that he realized he'd pulled on Fraser's sweater by mistake.
    He sniffed. Fraser's *pre-shower* sweater. 
    
    Obviously, this was the universe plotting against him. He'd decided on
    the way out here that he couldn't think about Fraser while he was doing
    this -- that would be asking for trouble, asking all those things he
    didn't want to look at to come up to the forefront of his brain and parade
    around and embarrass the hell out of him. He'd already decided to go
    with the tried and true -- The Stella, a complete and far-flung assortment
    of memories and fantasies that he'd learned through extensive experience
    how to keep sweet without tilting over into the bitter (at least, not
    until afterwards). 
    
    But he wasn't going to be able to think about Stella, not with Fraser
    wrapped around his chest and back and rising up to him in whiffs every
    time he moved -- a sweet, pungent smell, not at all like a gym or a locker
    room but definitely a guy-smell, a *man* smell, a *Fraser* smell and
    oh God, that peeled him like a banana, it really did. 
    
    There was nowhere to go, then, and nothing to do but close his eyes and
    groan out his shame, and fumble himself out into the cold of the air
    and the heat of his hand. Nothing to do but take hold, tight hold, and
    let go of all those sane thoughts about thirty-eight years of straightness
    and the kind of best friend you find maybe once in your life if you're
    lucky. Nothing to do but duck his nose inside the neck of Fraser's sweater,
    let Fraser come up around him, close and not turning away from him and
    not leaving, not running away even though he was there with his want
    and his need and his aching, naked dick riding the forward arch of his
    hips, looking for something. Some touch. 
    
    A touch -- he could think that, think of Fraser touching him, those fingers
    on his ribs, and that was strange and hot and he lifted his head, watching
    his breath drift away on clouds of steam and that was the backdrop against
    which he saw it, saw Fraser very close to him in the dim half-light of
    moonlight on snow. He saw both of them, shrouded by mist that didn't
    *quite* conceal the fact that it was Fraser's wide, strong hand doing
    this to him, stroking him slowly. Touching him. *Wanting* to touch him.
    Wanting *him*. 
    
    And oh, hey -- that's what fantasies are *for*, for attaining the unattainable,
    making the impossible happen, so if he wanted to go there and slide around
    on Fraser for a while, or push him up against a sturdy log-cabin wall
    and lick him until he broke through every bit of reserve and had Fraser
    letting go, letting him, *wanting* him, well, he could do that. 
    
    Images changed and shifted and he closed his eyes tight, not even caring
    that it hurt, and whatever was in him was really running wild now, because
    the next thing he saw was the walloping shock of himself on his knees,
    holding Fraser's shifting hips steady while he opened his mouth and started
    giving, giving everything he had and taking everything Fraser offered...
    
    And he was shaking... and Fraser was shaking... and his hand ached and
    his jaw stretched and his tongue licked sweet stinging pain over his
    cut lip and Fraser licked his lips, too, and said his name so very, very
    sweetly, like singing, like wanting, and Fraser would come for him because
    he *had* to and he wanted to and Fraser would go out of control and shudder
    and buck, just like this, just like this *exactly*. Overwhelmed. Out
    of control. Coming *hard*. 
    
    "Jesus-fuckin'-goddamn-sonofabitch-*Christ*..."
    
    He whammed the back of his head into the wall, praying with some dim
    corner of his mind that it hadn't been too loud, that he hadn't been
    too loud, hadn't woken the dogs. He didn't really feel like explaining
    himself to Diefenbaker, either. His body felt utterly limp, utterly *used*,
    and he didn't know what he'd been expecting by taking Fraser along for
    the ride but *God* he hadn't expected anything... quite... like... that.
    
    And then there was darkness, and the sound of his own breath shifting
    down to normal little by little by little, and his racing, runaway pulse
    going back to his chest where it belonged, rather than something he felt
    all the way to his eyelashes. There was quiet. 
    
    Not exactly *peace*, but quiet. At least.
    
    He wiped his hand on his jeans, and was about to get himself packed away
    nicely when he realized that, despite coming so hard that his relatives
    probably felt it, his erection hadn't really subsided all that much.
    
    Amazing. An utterly amazing thing -- he opened his eyes to check it out,
    this jaw-dropper of a physical impossibility, this ultimate betrayal
    by his own dearest body part, took a half-step to the left, a half-turn,
    and then he couldn't look *anywhere* -- 
    
    Except at Fraser. Who was standing about ten yards away.
    
    ******************************
    
    Oh, dear.
    
    Despite the cold, despite the fact that he'd only taken time to pull
    on his jeans and boots and parka, unlaced, unzipped; thrown from his
    normal routine by worry at waking to find Ray gone -- not in his cot,
    not in the corner chair, not in the bathroom, nowhere to be found --
    he felt...  warm. Hot. His face burned, his bare palms were slick with
    sweat, itchy. 
    
    He'd wondered as he struggled into his boots, not bothering with socks
    -- had he missed a head injury in his examination? 
    
    Perhaps Ray was disoriented, or had felt the call of nature and forgotten
    they had an indoor W.C.... 
    
    Had Ray lain in bed and ruminated on the fight to the point where he
    felt he had to return to the saloon and assuage his injured pride? 
    
    A small part of Fraser's mind, the part still interested in logic, while
    the rest of him melted into something far less rational, noted that none
    of the scenarios he'd devised in the brief time between waking and standing
    there, just meters away from an apparently perfectly healthy Ray, were
    correct. 
    
    He'd seen Ray, once he turned the corner of the cabin. He'd seen Ray,
    leaning with his back against the shed, one knee slightly bent, his head
    back, but Ray hadn't seen him. Ray didn't know he was there. He'd started
    to call out to him, but then he saw Ray's hand, down between his legs,
    taking out his erection, stroking it, saw him duck his face into the
    neck of his sweater. 
    
    His sweater. Wait. No, not Ray's sweater. *His* sweater. The one with
    the stretched out rollneck and the cables, the one he'd been wearing
    for days. The one that smelled like whatever he smelled of -- leather,
    and wool...  and tea. 
    
    And he stopped in his tracks. Riveted. He felt a sliver of heat curl
    in his stomach, slither down between his legs; felt his whole body flush.
    A potent mixture of shock and embarrassment, he told himself. He and
    Ray had shared many things in the past two years, and more in the past
    two weeks, but not...  this. Not...  that. 
    
    Natural to be embarrassed. Natural. The moment he recognized it, he knew
    he should turn, walk away as quietly as he possibly could. 
    
    Only he didn't move. He didn't budge from where he stood. And it didn't
    *feel* like embarrassment. Those same symptoms -- flushed face, pounding
    heart, shortened breath, he could excuse. But that didn't explain the
    rest of his response, the physical jolt that shook his entire system
    -- profound and immediate, disturbing and exciting -- past shock, somehow,
    *beyond* shock in a way he couldn't comprehend. It didn't explain how
    he was not only moved by this but... stirred, aroused; definitely aroused
    and trapped in it, amazed and discomfited by his own arousal. 
    
    It didn't explain why he *still* didn't walk away, why he couldn't take
    his eyes off Ray's...  member, hard in the cold, glistening faintly.
    It seemed almost nonsensical, the way looking at that part of Ray forced
    waves of heat all through him -- he had seen male genitalia before, certainly,
    but this was not that. This was... this *meant* something to him. Perhaps
    because this was Ray. Perhaps because Ray was wearing -- smelling --
    his sweater. Perhaps because Ray looked so... needy, so hungry for something
    that Fraser knew he shouldn't understand but maybe he did, maybe he did
    understand this after all. 
    
    He watched the whole thing -- the way Ray's head dropped back, as if
    his neck couldn't hold the weight of it. The way Ray's hand moved, the
    long fingers tight around his erection. He watched Ray's hips slide back
    and forth in raw, graceful thrusts, saw him lick his cut lip, saw him
    brace himself against the wall with his other hand. He saw his face tighten,
    pain and wonder colliding across his cheekbones, then a rough litany
    of expletives erupted at the same time as his man-handled penis, semen
    bursting into the air, over Ray's hand, down onto the snow. 
    
    He was dizzy, his head spinning as if he was being deprived of oxygen
    -- and so he was. He couldn't breathe. His knees threatened to buckle
    under him, and something dark and wonderful and terrifying rushed through
    him in a sharply visceral way that felt almost like his undoing, because
    he couldn't breathe, or move, or look away... 
    
    Not even when Ray turned and looked at him, his hand cradling his still-hard
    penis. 
    
    Caught in the light between the moon and the snow, Ray glowed. He looked
    fever bright, his body radiating waves of arousal and anger and something
    that might have been disbelief. As Fraser continued to stare at him,
    still unable to look away, Ray covered himself with his hand, pressing
    hard, and when Fraser took a shaky step toward him, he wheeled around,
    giving Fraser his back. Fraser froze as the full sense of his transgression
    hit, and he might have turned away, then, if Ray hadn't spoken. He *might*
    have. 
    
    "What's a guy gotta do to get some privacy around here?" Ray asked, his
    voice low and rough. 
    
    "Ray --" He was rooted to the spot, again -- what could he say? That
    he'd been worried? That he was sorry? He wasn't sorry, he realized, and
    the ache in his groin agreed. He didn't have it in him to be sorry. Not
    about something that real and immediate, not about seeing... *Ray*. And
    not about himself. 
    
    Part of him knew how strange that was, that he should be incapable of
    feeling sorry about bearing unintentional witness to what was of course
    a very private thing, but he held that in abeyance for now. It was up
    to Ray. Ray could *make* him sorry, if he wanted to. If he left. Or,
    conversely, Ray could stay. Talk about it. And he could offer... understanding.
    
    He did, after all, understand. Of course Ray had...  needs. All men did.
    *He* certainly did. Although he usually forgot about them until he was
    forcibly reminded. 
    
    As he was being reminded now.
    
    "I mean, Jesus, it's two in the morning. You're *asleep*. Why aren't
    you *asleep*?" Ray said. 
    
    Fraser heard a hint of panic in his voice, and that prompted him to move,
    finally -- but forward, not away. He walked steadily towards him, reaching
    down to adjust his own erection to a more comfortable position in his
    jeans. Yes, he'd been asleep. Maybe he'd been asleep for a long time.
    All he knew was that he felt wide awake now, alert and ready, his muscles
    and nerves singing, his mind and body clear in the cold. 
    
    Ray, with his injured pride and his aching body, had come out into the
    dark and the cold, propelled by some urgent need. A need he'd satisfied
    with his face buried in Fraser's sweater, surrounded by his smell. A
    sharp joy sliced through Fraser at the thought, and he looked at Ray
    as if he'd never seen him before. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe this Ray, naked
    in part and exposed everywhere, was someone he'd glimpsed only briefly
    before: his expression after he'd hit him, there by the lake. The shake
    in his shoulders as he'd cried outside Beth Botrelle's house. The soft
    question in his voice, his eyes, outside a hospital room, 'so, we still
    partners?' 
    
    Just glimpses of the Ray who now stood before of him, ready to bolt,
    protecting himself with words, but showing so much more. 
    
    He stopped about a foot away. Closer than polite company would stand,
    closer than necessary. Ray wouldn't look at him, hadn't moved, hadn't
    tucked himself back in his pants. He just stood there, his head tilted
    away, exposing the long clean line of his throat. Fraser wanted to press
    his tongue there, just below the tendon, find the pulse he knew throbbed
    beneath the surface. 
    
    He took a deep breath. He hadn't expected this, but it felt...  right.
    Felt like an extension of the closeness that had grown between them,
    like something that had been there all the time, waiting patiently to
    be discovered. He hoped he hadn't read Ray wrong. A strange hope, perhaps,
    given the complications this could lead to, but suddenly he *wanted*
    it. 
    
    Wanted Ray. 
    
    He'd said Ray wasn't most people, but it was so much *more* than that.
    He'd had so few people in his life he could *talk* to, without having
    to weigh his thoughts, or measure his words. In Ray, he'd found a true
    friend. Someone who trusted him enough to cling to an airplane wing,
    someone who loved him enough to jump through a window on a motorcycle.
    
    Someone who loved him.
    
    Someone who loved him enough.
    
    His partner. His friend. That wasn't hard to say. Not in the least. Now
    he just had to tell Ray, *show* Ray, they could have even more than that.
    
    "We should go back inside," he said, close enough now to see that Ray
    was shivering. Out in the dark without a coat - what had Ray been thinking?
    Body heat and sexual adrenaline could only counterbalance the cold for
    so long, and it seemed this conversation would better be held indoors.
    
    Ray dropped his chin to his chest and deliberately tucked his erection
    back into his pants, zipping carefully over it. He rearranged himself,
    then started walking, brushing Fraser's shoulder as he passed. Fraser
    followed him, watching his awkward stride, knowing his own mirrored it.
    
    By the time Fraser had shed his coat and boots, Ray was back in bed,
    the covers pulled to his waist, his arm covering his eyes. He'd pulled
    off his own boots and jeans, Fraser saw, but he was still wearing the
    sweater. 
    
    Fraser went to sit on the end of his own cot, which put him at Ray's
    feet, but closer than sitting in one of the chairs, and being close seemed
    like a good idea. If he put out a hand, he could clasp Ray's foot, but
    he didn't, propping his arms on his thighs instead, his hands on his
    knees. 
    
    Quiet filled the little cabin while Fraser searched for words. The fantastic
    rush of what had happened outside had dissipated, leaving him still aroused
    but much less comfortable about it, uncomfortable even being in this
    state in Ray's presence, let alone being in this state *because* of Ray's
    presence. He licked dry lips and tried to find an approach -- there would
    be a bridge, here; all he had to do was build it. 
    
    Indeed. Build the bridge. Abruptly he cleared his throat in frustration
    -- ask him about Inuit hunting rituals, or the proper measurement of
    a fathom and he could spout paragraphs. But this, here, with Ray... 
    this didn't come as easily. 
    
    Then Ray surprised him by speaking first.
    
    "How do you handle it?" he asked.
    
    "Handle what, Ray?"
    
    Ray shrugged absently, a sudden and somehow resigned movement. "All of
    it. Being out there in the nothing world, nothing but snowshoes and dog
    food... " 
    
    Fraser took a breath. Was that all that was going on? Had the isolation
    played tricks on Ray? Led him down a path he wouldn't ordinarily walk?
    A sobering thought. 
    
    He cleared his throat again, feeling his arousal abate under his indecision,
    unsure whether or not he should be relieved by that. "Well, you make
    do." 
    
    Ray lifted his arm from over his eyes and peered at him. "That's it?"
    
    Fraser nodded. "Well, yes. You do what needs to be done." He took a deep
    breath, then gestured in the general vicinity of Ray's groin. "You...
    make do." 
    
    Ray's eyes widened, and his hand slid halfway to his lap before he seemed
    to realize what he was doing and slapped it onto the bed beside him instead.
    
    "I don't know what I'm doing out here," he said. He sounded miserable.
    
    Fraser mulled that over. Did he mean it literally, as in he still felt
    ill-equipped for the challenge? Or did he mean it metaphorically, philosophically,
    that he didn't know why he'd come, why he'd wanted to make the journey?
    
    "You're doing fine, Ray," he said, choosing the most obvious approach.
    
    "I'm all...  messed up," Ray continued, almost in a whisper.
    
    Fraser's heart turned over. No matter where he went, Ray seemed to be
    the outcast, the...  oh, what was the term he'd used...  oddball. Fraser
    didn't want him to feel that way with *him*. He wanted Ray to feel the
    way Ray made *him* feel. Accepted. Appreciated. At home. Even occasionally
    aggravated beyond belief. 
    
    "No, you're not. You're doing fine," he repeated, and his hand moved
    of its own volition, reaching out to hold Ray's foot under the blanket.
    
    Ray barked a laugh, a bitter sound. "Oh yeah, I'm good. I'm great. I
    think I need some serious help." 
    
    Fraser pressed the arch of Ray's foot, and heard himself say, over the
    beat of his suddenly pounding heart: "I can help." 
    
    Ray propped himself up on his elbows, staring down the length of his
    body at Fraser. Fraser saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard.
    
    "With what?" he said, his lips barely moving.
    
    "Any of it. All of it," Fraser answered, hoping Ray would understand.
    Hoping he knew what he was saying. 
    
    Ray sat up, holding his ribs as he did so. His face looked tight with
    tension again, his eyes intense, holding Fraser's gaze. 
    
    "So...  uh... do you make do, too?" Ray asked, his hand once again sliding
    between his legs, so Fraser had no doubt what he referred to. 
    
    Fraser nodded.
    
    "I'm human, too, Ray," he said, moving from his cot to Ray's without
    letting go of that warm foot. "I'm just like you." 
    
    ***************************************
    
    *Just like him.*
    
    In a pig's eye.
    
    Not to mention the obvious -- that Fraser was big and polite and weird
    in some cool and annoying ways and *Canadian*; and... 
    
    ...and holding his foot... and sitting on his cot... while he was sitting
    here with his freak-of-nature dick in his hand... 
    
    ...and Fraser was looking at him with that same look he'd had out by
    the shed, after he'd (Jesus!) watched him jerk off and then stared at
    him, not looking disgusted or like some innocent guy who had wandered
    into the wrong section of the video rental store; but looking *interested*,
    looking kind of... hungry. A familiar look. A look that was just like
    his own face felt -- the poor kid in a candy store look. 
    
    Maybe he'd have to just take Fraser's word for it.
    
    Ray opened his mouth, not sure what was going to say until he heard himself.
    "I... uh... I didn't wear your sweater on purpose, you know." 
    
    Fraser blinked, and leaned back a little. Yeah, that was out of left
    field. For both of them. "You didn't?" 
    
    For whatever reason, this seemed important, like he had to get this one
    thing across, if nothing else. "Nope. Got dressed in the dark. I was
    gonna leave you out of it. I was all ready to leave you out of it..."
    
    He stopped, wondering if he'd said too much. When Fraser blushed, he
    knew for sure. 
    
    Fraser cleared his throat. "I... like it, that you wore my sweater, Ray.
    I'm glad you did." 
    
    He didn't *want* to smile at that, but it was either that or bite his
    own lip to stop it, and that would hurt. The smile hurt. But it felt
    good, too. "Yeah? You liked that, huh?" 
    
    Fraser nodded, looking so serious about it that for a second Ray felt
    a cold clutch of panic -- this was... that subtle thing, that fucking-around-hinting-around
    sort of thing, and if anybody could be counted on to take that the wrong
    way, it would be Fraser. 
    
    He sat up straight, and pushed away the panic. For now. "So..." it occurred
    to him that he was still hanging onto his hard-on like someone was going
    to try to take it away from him, and he pulled his hand away, going for
    casual. Sniffed. Tried to get both eyes focused on Fraser's. "So... 
    okay...  what else do you like?" 
    
    Fraser smiled -- the most relaxed kind of smile he could ever remember
    seeing on his face. "I like you," Fraser said calmly, like it was nothing;
    "very much." 
    
    That sounded like put-up or shut-up time, and Ray had just about worked
    himself up to ask which one it was going to be -- when Fraser shocked
    him into silence by going for his mouth and his dick at the same time,
    warm lips and a hot hand knocking the words right out of his head. 'Don't
    kiss me' floated through his mind, but thank God not through his mouth,
    because that was just an automatic thing; a knee-jerk-thing because Fraser
    was a guy and he was a guy and this wasn't a fantasy but was really really
    real and he wasn't supposed to... 
    
    Tongue in his mouth. Slick and soft. Eager. His entire body jerked like
    he'd been hit with electricity, and he pushed his cock into Fraser's
    hand until his ribs made him stop. 
    
    ...Wasn't supposed to... oh jeez, there was *something* he wasn't supposed
    to do but he couldn't remember, couldn't remember a goddamn single thing
    and he was *glad*... 
    
    Fraser kissed like he was starving and that was really good, that was
    wonderful, because both of them were getting it, getting what they needed.
    His split lip  throbbed when Fraser licked it; licked across it so softly
    and gently that it loosened something up inside him and pushed him *right*
    up to the edge. Already one-off tonight, and here he was ready to go
    for it again, ready to let it all hang out if only Fraser would keep
    holding him like that, just like that, if only Fraser would lick him
    like that one more time. 
    
    He made some sound -- he didn't know what, couldn't hear it, but Fraser
    must have heard it because he pulled back an inch or two. "Did you say
    something, Ray?" 
    
    "I..." Fraser's eyes looked huge, much bigger than he remembered ever
    seeing them. "No. Just -- your tongue." 
    
    Speak of the devil. Swiping across Fraser's bottom lip. He shivered.
    
    "Yes?"
    
    He pushed into Fraser's hand again. "You, uh... licked me."
    
    Fraser squeezed him, softly. "Yes."
    
    There was something clawing at him, something inside that wanted out.
    He pulled in a deep breath. "I kinda... I really liked it." 
    
    "You did." 
    
    He'd meant to be in charge of this, to be in control of this, from the
    very second he thought it might actually happen. That had been the plan.
    He'd been married, right, he knew the score more, even if it wasn't quite
    the same because, like he'd said, Fraser was just like him, not like
    a wife, or even a girl, but still, Ray was the horny hopped-up one, and
    Fraser was the guy who barely got laid...  and...  but...  
    
    But it seemed, like most of his plans, to be pretty weak in the follow-through
    department, because with the way Fraser was kind of on top of him and
    stroking him up good and licking all the parts of his jaw and neck and
    (God!) ear that were in reach, he didn't seem to be in charge of much
    of anything except making a lot of noise. 
    
    And of course, because it was Fraser, there were words right along with
    the licking. What did he expect? 
    
    "The human tongue is one of the most proficient sensory organs, Ray."
    
    "Oh God -- you don't say, Fraser? Jesus..." There? He liked getting licked
    *there*? 
    
    "Indeed. The ability to discern subtleties in taste and texture is a
    skill that's easy to cultivate--" 
    
    "Jesus. Cultivate. Fraser--"
    
    "Which of course makes it one of the best diagnostic tools that we sensory-limited
    humans have at our disposal--" 
    
    "Fraser. You're, oh... um... you're a *freak*, Fraser." Freaking good
    at it, is what he was. 
    
    "All in all a sensitive, ductile organ; easily suited to numerous purposes--"
    
    "Yeah, like *that* purpose, that purpose thing there that you just did,
    that swirly thing, you do that on purpose?" 
    
    "Like this, Ray?"
    
    "*Oh* yeah, that's the one--"
    
    "Well, yes; I suppose it's good for that too."
    
    "You're telling *me* -- you're... Fraser... Oh God oh God oh God..."
    
    And he'd thought that maybe Fraser couldn't do the licking thing without
    the lecturing thing along with it; that maybe Fraser used his brain for
    sex instead of his body. But when Fraser shifted over to the side and
    yanked the blanket away, pushed up his sweater (*his* sweater!), pulled
    down his briefs, then tongued a wide stripe down his chest before going
    right deep down on him -- tight and warm, slippery and so, so deep --
    well, that theory kind of went out the window; along with whatever was
    left of his sanity. 
    
    Which was why he didn't push Fraser away, even though he heard Fraser's
    breathing stutter and catch, even though he thought that Fraser might
    be choking down there. His hands flew to Fraser's head, clutching, gripping
    like he was desperate or something, because he was. 
    
    Fraser let him, Fraser let him in. A powerful sense of being *welcomed*
    overwhelmed him -- he couldn't remember ever feeling anything like that
    before, like he was *wanted* right where he was. Fraser wanted him. Like
    this. 
    
    And in all the time he'd been beating himself up over wanting Fraser,
    angels and demons in a pissing contest over who had the upper hand, he'd
    never once, not even once, imagined Fraser on the giving end. It had
    always been Fraser taking, accepting, passive, letting him do stuff.
    He'd never imagined Fraser doing, doing that, doing *this*. 
    
    Never imagined himself, laid back, stretched out, not in charge, not
    in control, not even a little bit. Not at all. 
    
    "Fraser..."
    
    Shaking, shaking so hard and *pushing*... he knew he shouldn't push but
    he just couldn't stop. 
    
    "Fraser, that's it... I can't... I gotta... I'm gonna... "
    
    No words left but he kept up the racket, moaning out all sorts of helpless
    noises while it crashed into him what he was doing, here, that he was
    pumping up hard, that he was about to come in Fraser's *mouth*. It was
    like liquid lightning through him, spiking and melting him all at once,
    and his cries, his body went out of control as he pulled Fraser to him
    and shot; rocking in as deep as he could go, using his hands to cradle
    Fraser's head while he pulsed and shuddered and groaned with the mind-bending
    pleasure of it. 
    
    Sometime shortly after that, the sanity that had taken a little siesta
    so that he could go purely nuts in Fraser's sweet mouth finally put in
    an appearance. He was still twitching and gasping with residual ripples
    when a cold wave of fear and shame caught him up, turning everything
    that had melted inside him into something that felt like it just might
    make him sick. He had just... He couldn't believe that he'd just... 
    
    "Fraser."
    
    His voice must have been a tip-off. Fraser was up and around him right
    away, holding him. Careful of his bruises. 
    
    *Fraser*, holding *him*. Unbelievable. 
    
    But for right now, it seemed like what he needed. So he let himself be
    held. 
    
    ****************************** 
    
    He hadn't known.
    
    He'd read, of course. Growing up with a librarian had seen to that. Libraries
    were like churches to him: places for spiritual solace, intellectual
    nurturing, the occasional epiphany. 
    
    He'd read, behind the shelving, and between the lines sometimes, the
    works of D.H. Lawrence, the delicate mystery of Pearl S. Buck, the Songs
    of Solomon, absorbing the lush potential of erotic possibility. And as
    he'd grown, he'd heard half-understood jokes about the ways people could
    love, the various combinations, the paths a man could choose beyond what
    a boy might find to read about in his grandparent's library. 
    
    He'd never understood how it could be *joked* about, belittled.  As a
    lonely boy growing into a solitary man, the idea of creating a connection
    with anyone, man or woman, seemed exotic, wondrous. As out of his reach
    as the stars in the sky, as distant. 
    
    So he'd read about love, and sex. Knew the mechanics of the latter, and
    the hazards of the former. He'd learned about men and women, men and
    men, women and women. He couldn't say he'd been misinformed, or under-educated.
    But nothing he'd read, or known, or even imagined, had prepared him for
    the feel of Ray Kowalski's mouth under his, the wonder of Ray's erection
    balanced in his hand. 
    
    His last experience -- painful to remember at every point -- he'd confused
    sex with love, protectiveness with need. That, too, had been a kind of
    epiphany. He'd shied away from repeating the mistake, held himself away,
    apart...  from most people, anyway. The pleasure of sex hadn't been worth
    the pain of love. 
    
    But here, there was no pain. No pain at all, just desire, and affection,
    and...  relief. Here lay Ray, aroused and unguarded, wide open, letting
    him in. 
    
    He couldn't get close enough. Touching wasn't enough. Tasting the whorls
    of Ray's ear wasn't enough, or his throat, or his collarbone, with the
    faint whiff of his own scent wafting to his nostrils from the open neck
    of the blue sweater he decided they'd now have to share. 
    
    He'd built a bridge between them, and then he'd crossed it, pushing down
    barriers with his hands and mouth, hearing himself give a lecture on
    the wonders of the human tongue while underneath, deep inside, he'd mapped
    Ray's body in his mind, memorized it, learning again the sweet curve
    of rib, the tender belly below, reaching for Ray's straining erection
    with reverence and hunger. Only then, only when his mouth closed warm
    and tight around him, did he feel close enough. 
    
    It took Ray's fingers, clenched tight in his hair, the narrow curve of
    his hips firm in his hands, and the heat of him, hard, wet, smooth, thrusting
    deep enough to choke him, almost deep enough, to make it perfect. He'd
    listened to Ray's gasps and groans, to the sound of his own name, repeated
    in shades of desperation, amazement, need, and felt his own arousal skyrocket
    in response, leaping forward again to match Ray, to meet him. 
    
    And then Ray had gone on without him, cresting, jerking in his mouth,
    filling it with slick, salty fluid, another flavor to remember, and hard
    on the heels of his release, Fraser could feel him panic, smelled it,
    leaching into the last shudders of pleasure, so he climbed Ray's body,
    pulling him into his arms, holding tight, as if he could block the regret
    with the shield of his body. 
    
    "Fraser --" Ray whispered, but he shushed him, rocking him slowly, clamping
    down hard on his own unsatisfied need. 
    
    Ray rubbed his head against him, the soft spikes of his hair making him
    tingle. "Where'd you learn to do that?" he asked, his voice slurred.
    
    That? Oh. *That*.
    
    "The Inuvik public library," he said, letting his mouth taste Ray's hair
    -- shampoo residue, sweat. 
    
    Ray pulled his head back, bumping Fraser's chin. "Get out. Who with?"
    
    "Who with? What do you...  Oh, I see. No, I didn't...  I haven't... "
    Fraser closed his mouth. Surely he could answer a simple question. Surely
    they'd reached that point. 
    
    "I read about it, Ray. I haven't ever done it before," he said, pulling
    Ray's head back down, tucking him into his chest. 
    
    Ray lay quietly against him for a few minutes, then said, "You didn't...
    mind? Doing that?" 
    
    Oh, please let him say the right thing. If he'd ever wanted to listen
    well, answer right, it was now. 
    
    "I didn't mind, Ray. I wanted to. I wanted...  you."
    
    He felt Ray tremble underneath him, felt his own body tremble in response,
    thinking again how little he'd learned, shockingly attuned to the slightest
    quiver beneath him. Without making a conscious decision, he nudged his
    erection against Ray's hip, and felt Ray twitch under him, heard a smothered
    groan, then the clutch of Ray's hands on his back, kneading at him, encouraging
    him. 
    
    Fraser pulled away a little, resting his hand lightly on Ray's side,
    careful not to press on his sore ribs. Ray was breathing hard, his face
    flushed, his bruised eye livid. His good eye met Fraser's, blinked twice,
    and the brow above it climbed into his forehead. 
    
    "What?" Ray asked. 
    
    "Is it all right...  if I... " Fraser couldn't find the words, so he
    moved his hips again, rocked into the saddle of Ray's pelvis. As he watched,
    the confusion melted from Ray's face, replaced by something that looked
    perilously close to tenderness. 
    
    "Yeah, yeah, anything," Ray said, his hands sliding up under Fraser's
    shirt, playing on his back. 
    
    Fraser ducked his head into Ray's shoulder, back to where their smells
    melded together into something new, intoxicating, and slowly, carefully,
    thrust against him, deliberately dragging it out, trying not to forget,
    trying to stay on top of the feeling so he could remember it. He managed
    until almost the end, when Ray's hands moved down, slipping from his
    back to his bottom, where Fraser could feel him draw circles with his
    palms in time to the thrusts, pushing against him, forcing him closer.
    
    It was all he could do not just drop his whole weight on the squirming
    body below, all he could do not to push his way between Ray's long thighs,
    open him up, bury himself. He felt long shudders wrack him, from his
    hands up his arms, across his shoulders and down his back, pooling between
    his legs, making him shake, rattling the frame of the cot. Ray held him
    tight at the end, one hand still splayed below his waist, the other holding
    the back of his neck, holding him close in the crook of his shoulder,
    murmuring to him. 
    
    Fraser felt himself dropping, all his muscles loosening, and he shifted
    to one side, bringing Ray with him, letting Ray shift on top of him.
    He felt boneless, groggy. He opened his eyes and couldn't tell if the
    hand on his chest belonged to him or to Ray. It didn't seem to matter.
    
    He roused long enough to strip down to his undershirt and exchange his
    soaked boxer shorts for a clean, dry pair. He left Ray as he was, bundled
    in his sweater and boxer briefs, and added a pair of red socks to Ray's
    chilled feet before sliding back in beside him -- a precarious perch,
    given their combined weight and the apparent age of the cot, but a risk
    he felt worth taking. 
    
    Neither of them seemed to want to sleep. On Fraser's part it was something
    intuitive, nearly superstitious -- he didn't want to lose this. If he
    closed his eyes, it might all vanish. He didn't know what Ray's reasons
    were, but on the whole he had to admit that he didn't care, as long as
    Ray stayed. 
    
    And Ray *did* stay -- stayed close to him, stayed in his arms, stayed
    *with* him through one of the strangest conversations he'd ever had,
    a far-ranging mixture of past and present *("That's not the roof, that's
    the wind." "You sure put on a helluva party, Fraser")* and personal *("It's
    not that I'm entirely innocent, Ray." "I knew that.")* and irrelevant
    *("I thought it was green." "No, only in December")* that was somehow
    like getting to know each other all over again, for the first time. The
    words flowed out of him in a way they almost never did -- he must be
    exhausted, indeed, to make such a thing possible. But he didn't want
    to -- wouldn't -- go to sleep. 
    
    Ray wasn't quiescent, but made up an odd and comforting bundle of twitches
    and shifts and emphatic, eloquent gestures. When he laughed, the vibration
    of it sank effortlessly into Fraser's core, a unique and profound tremor,
    another sensation to be memorized. Kept. He closed his eyes every time
    it happened, letting himself feel without limits for once, letting his
    body tell him just how very good it felt to be there. 
    
    There was something wonderful in that, too, beyond the bone-deep satisfaction
    of being stretched warm against the length of Ray's body. Arousal had
    so often been checked, delayed, submerged...  buried...  under duty,
    under fear, that to allow himself to just...  he sought the appropriate
    word...  *ignite*... Well, it made sleeping seem like a pretty silly
    way to spend time in a bed. 
    
    The third time he nudged Ray into an incrementally different position
    in his arms, Ray shifted against him. Ray seemed to have talked himself
    out a little while before, now only responding to Fraser's continued
    observations with grunts, nods and occasional strokes to the belly, all
    of which added to the fire simmering in Fraser's groin. 
    
    "What's the matter?" Ray mumbled, hands already tightening, as if he
    didn't want Fraser to move. 
    
    "Nothing, it's just... my arm has fallen asleep--"
    
    "Should I move?"
    
    "No -- just... no. Not at all."
    
    But Ray seemed compelled to shift around anyway, and in such close quarters
    it was inevitable that they should collide a little, even though he was
    trying to be so careful of Ray's ribs. When Ray's groin bumped his erection,
    he couldn't help gasping. 
    
    Ray's eyes were on him at once, somehow wide-awake and exhausted at the
    same time. "Well sheesh, Fraser; why didn't you tell me you were, uh...
    saluting the flag, there? I mean, it's not like I'm gonna be *shocked*
    or anything--" 
    
    "But, well, it's late, and you're not... it's not... mutual, Ray--" 
    
    Ray shifted against him again, slowly and deliberately this time, pulling
    another gasp out of him. "Look, I've already done my thing twice tonight,
    and I couldn't get it up again if, uh... well, it's just not gonna happen.
    But we can... you know, do that 'making do' thing, that 'helping out'
    thing; you're real big on that. C'mon, Fraser, maybe I can earn some
    kinda badge or something--" 
    
    "Ray." It was ridiculous. He knew he should let Ray rest, that Ray was
    injured and probably dangerously close to total exhaustion, and that
    it was up to him to be the voice of reason under these circumstances.
    But there was something about Ray's enthusiasm that was incredibly compelling
    -- touching and seductive, without a trace of artifice. Just purely...
    alluring. 
    
    "Do not 'Ray' me, Fraser; I did not stay up all night talking your ear
    off so that you could 'Ray' me away from your hard-on. We're partners,
    right?" 
    
    There was no way to argue with that. Not that he wanted to. "Yes, we
    are." 
    
    Ray's hand was hot against him under the covers, even through his boxers.
    "We're friends, right?" 
    
    His numb arm, the one that had been dead for hours but had now started
    to tingle, tightened around Ray's shoulders. "Oh yes." 
    
    Ray's fingers, for which he was gaining a whole new level of appreciation,
    squeezed him briefly. "Well, there you go. So... let's get friendly."
    
    "Ah--" he might not have gotten any further than that, might have surrendered
    in short order to the sweet, tight pressure of Ray's clever fingers,
    if he hadn't caught Ray's eyes at that moment, hadn't seen a budding
    heat there that made him think that, just maybe, Ray wasn't *quite* as
    enervated as he thought he was. "Wait," he managed, forcing his own body
    still before he could be utterly seduced by the rhythm of Ray's touch.
    
    Ray waited, his eyes gone narrow and wary. "You chickening out on me,
    Fraser?" 
    
    "I... no. I'm not. I simply... I want..." He swallowed. There weren't
    words for this, were there? He could think of several poems that might
    be able to get the point across, but it was highly unlikely that Ray
    would be willing to wait for him to recite them. 
    
    The wariness that had appeared in Ray's eyes vanished, just as quickly.
    "You want... what? C'mon, spit it out, Fraser -- I promise I won't scream
    and run away, or throw you in a snowbank or nothing--" 
    
    "I want to move to the floor." There. That was part of it, at least.
    That part he had words for. Logistics. If he could persuade himself to
    think of this as logistics... 
    
    "The floor. Uh-huh." Ray winked with his good eye. "Is this some funky
    Canadian thing?" Fraser was spared the necessity of a reply as Ray sat
    up, moving gingerly. "Forget I asked, Fraser. Yeah. Whatever turns you
    on -- floor, bathtub, up against the wall--" 
    
    "Splinters, Ray," he chided, and Ray smiled at him, and something deep
    in his chest caught fire and just didn't go out, burning mellow and constant,
    warming him from the inside out. 
    
    ***************************************
    
    Splinters. Splintered. Little slivers that got under your skin and demanded
    attention until you got some tweezers and some rubbing alcohol and dug
    them out. Yeah, that about covered it, Ray decided. Fraser had gotten
    seriously under his skin. 
    
    Who'd have thought Fraser had it in him to do this? To listen to Ray
    talk about having him up against a wall and his only answer being "Splinters,
    Ray... " and him not even blushing while he said it? 
    
    To talk about moving to the floor, to get more room, so they could...
    well, Fraser hadn't managed to spit that part out yet, but Ray couldn't
    think of a thing that he'd balk at, and a whole bunch of things he'd
    jump right on, so it didn't matter anymore whether Fraser could actually
    *ask* for what he wanted -- Ray planned to give it to him. 
    
    He surreptitiously poked at a bruise, just to make it hurt, to remind
    himself that he wasn't still off in Kowalski Fantasy Land, on an all-day
    pass to the land of the latent. Ouch. No, the bruise was real. Which
    meant he really had picked a fight with a trash-talking bartender, really
    had jerked off outside, with no coat (Christ, he could've frozen something
    important... ), really had gotten the best blow-job of his entire life
    from a man (a man! for God's sake... ) who'd apparently learned the mechanics
    out of a book. 
    
    Yup, all in all, he'd have to say, on a scale of one to ten, today rated
    a sixteen. Good and weird. *Good* and weird. Kinda like Fraser. 
    
    He should have remembered that Fraser never did anything by halves. Full-speed
    ahead, damn the torpedoes, dot the I's, cross the T's, in triplicate,
    if possible. Start like you intend to finish, follow through with the
    details, once you take on a job it's yours. All that Mountie stuff, shifted
    now towards the goal of turning one Ray Kowalski into a puddle of goo
    on a cot. And now, it looked like he might get a chance to puddle up
    the floor, too. 
    
    He watched as Fraser, with his usual efficiency, stoked up the fire,
    turned off the last of the lights, and made a nice, warm, soft nest on
    the floor to crawl into. In the light from the smudged wood stove windows,
    he looked...  good. Considering how late it was, and how tired they were,
    and how hard the last couple of weeks had been, Fraser looked...  great.
    Calm, steady. Happy. 
    
    Fraser looked happy. The tightness he usually held around his mouth --
    gone. The line between his eyebrows -- gone. He seemed totally at ease
    in his underwear and bare feet, like it didn't bother him a bit for Ray
    to see him like that, to see the bulge in the front of his shorts. They'd
    done a total 360. Um, no, make that a 180. They'd switched everything
    around. 
    
    Wasn't the adventure made him look like that. Nope, they'd been out and
    about for fourteen days now and Fraser'd never looked like he was on
    vacation...  until now. 
    
    He'd put that look on Fraser's face. Well, sort of. Not much beat a good
    orgasm for putting a smile on your face, but Ray decided he could take
    some credit for it. It was his hip Fraser'd been rubbing, his shoulder
    Fraser'd been chewing on. Fraser'd had a good time on his body; he knew
    it. Nice thing about being with a guy -- they kinda couldn't hide it
    when all the cylinders were fired up. 
    
    Fraser hadn't even tried to hide it. Ray shook his head, wondering just
    how he could have gotten it all so *wrong*. Fraser hadn't freaked, hadn't
    pulled back, shoved away, nothing. Fraser'd *gone* for it. Gone for it
    in a *big* old way. Here he'd been so *worried*, stressed out over something
    he couldn't help, couldn't stop, couldn't go forward with, and Fraser'd
    just taken all that worry away. Kissed it away. 
    
    Sucked it away.
    
    Oh, fuck. Fraser'd *sucked* him. Just the thought of it was enough to
    make his heart skip a beat and his dick grow an inch. He stretched in
    the cot, feeling the chill now that Mr. Radiator had left. The bumps
    and bruises he'd taken felt like they belonged to somebody else, like
    they couldn't begin to bug him, not with how great the rest of him felt.
    He'd have never believed he could get it up one more time, not after
    doing it twice. Incredible, both times. He'd never felt...  anything
    like that. 
    
    He wanted that feeling again, felt himself waking up, felt his groin
    stir and his body warm. He hoped Fraser'd quit dicking around with the
    damn bed and just get on with it already. Fraser had a plan, he could
    tell. No hemming and hawing this go-round, no sir. Whatever weird but
    good plan Fraser had, Ray was along for the ride. 
    
    Saddle up, boys, we're headed out.
    
    ***************************************
    
    With his bedroll and Ray's bedroll and all of the blankets from both
    cots spread out on the floor they had a fairly comfortable and certainly
    more commodious nest, and he'd taken advantage of it at once by stripping
    Ray out of his clothes and laying him down. There was skin to be touched,
    and bruises to be kissed apologetically, and whole worlds to be discovered
    here; planes and angles and slopes of muscle, soft down and intriguing
    musky smells, and mysterious scars to be traced with the tip of his tongue.
    
    "Hey." Ray actually sounded scandalized. "What're you... I'm not... Fraser,
    you're the guy with his boxers in a twist, here. Not me." 
    
    "But this is what I want, Ray." That was true, at least for this moment.
    
    "Seriously, Fraser, not that you're not... you know... great with the
    tongue thing and everything, but I just can't... oh. Oh. I -- uh... wow."
    
    "Mmm." Apparently, Ray had no further need to dissuade him, which was
    a relief. He indulged himself to the fullest, drawing in the details
    one at a time -- smooth, flushed skin, tremors that worked their way
    into him as if connected to his core, warmth and slick wetness and the
    simple, annihilating lust of flesh following his touch, seeking him out.
    He drew it all in until he felt glutted, until the rigid length between
    his legs throbbed a beat that echoed through his whole body. When he
    gently guided Ray over to lie on his stomach, Ray let out a moan that
    made him bite his bottom lip. He had to force his hands not to shake.
    
    Ray's gasps for breath tore at him, a nonverbal declaration of want and
    need that he responded to helplessly. When he stroked Ray's smooth thighs
    apart, Ray's whole body shuddered, and Fraser felt something dark and
    ravenous well up from the pit of his stomach, something that wanted him
    to clutch much more tightly than he was allowing himself to do. 
    
    "Oh God, Fraser -- you're gonna do it, aren't you? You're gonna go for
    it. You're gonna--" 
    
    Ray sounded like he wasn't too far away from a state of aroused panic,
    but for some reason that seemed strangely unimportant. Far less important
    than the incredible smooth saltiness of Ray's skin under his tongue;
    warm and faintly moist and wonderfully *alive*, pulling at him while
    faint, far-off moaning sounded an echo of his own astonishment, tugging
    him along on the currents of twitch and shiver beneath him until he traced
    a damp path down to the sweet, shadowed cleft that he found he couldn't
    resist. 
    
    Ray  moved against him at the first touch of his tongue there. Not away
    from him... toward him, opening to him with a groan that held no hint
    of panic, only surprise and what sounded like, what had to be, pleasure.
    
    Pressure built behind his closed eyes -- too far, he was too far gone
    now to stop or think or reason, he could only give himself to this. He
    could only put his whole heart into it, and go on, and on, and on, and
    live with the ache of knowing that, at some point, he would have to stop,
    that he wouldn't be joined to Ray like this anymore. Slick, tight muscle
    spasmed against his tongue, a luxurious ripple that ran through him,
    right down to his toes. Ray's body arched, spread, shook under his hands,
    and when he gave in to his own urges and let himself hold *tight*, it
    speared him with pleasure so intense he grew faint. 
    
    And Ray let him, let him do this, let him hide here -- Ray gave to him,
    took from him and gave back again. Fraser marveled, he had to... being
    touched and touching, *really* touching; a phenomenon. 
    
    Ray... was so... very... *hot*... inside.
    
    "...Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh *Jesus* Fraser if you don't stop..." 
    
    Words that drifted to him as if at the very outside edge of his hearing,
    even though Ray was right there. He stopped. Forced himself back. Opened
    his eyes. 
    
    He was shocked to see how tightly he'd gripped Ray's hips (as if the
    man didn't have enough bruises already), and made himself let go. He
    pressed his lips together instead, pulling hard for air through his nose.
    Ray's words had died off into an incoherent mumble, and now there was
    nothing to go on except desperate gasps, which could have meant anything.
    
    "Ray?" His own voice sounded strange, splintered to his ears. "Did I
    hurt you?" 
    
    "Huh?" He noticed with some alarm that Ray's body was now drenched in
    sweat, and was still shaking. 
    
    "Did I hurt you?"
    
    Ray laughed. It didn't sound like a very comfortable laugh, but it was
    something. "Well, to be completely honest, Fraser, I think you kinda
    almost killed me." 
    
    He tensed, prepared to pull away, but before he could Ray's hand reached
    back towards him; a shaky, but determined grip on his wrist. "No, Fraser.
    You didn't hurt me." 
    
    He kept his sigh of relief as quiet as possible. "I see." He rose to
    his knees and looked at Ray, this sweating, trembling, on-the-edge-of-everything
    Ray. He saw the strength there and the fortitude, the core of substance
    that was so *obvious*, so very easy to see even though Ray was blind
    to it himself. 
    
    He drew in a deep breath. "I know what I want, Ray."
    
    Ray's head scrubbed against the blankets in what he could only assume
    was a nod. "Uh-huh. It's yours. Whatever you want, take it. All yours,
    Fraser." 
    
    One last kiss pressed to Ray's slippery spine; then he pushed himself
    up and back, and it was the work of only a moment -- a very scattered
    moment -- to collect a necessary item from a pouch of his pack. His hands
    would *not* stop shaking, no matter how hard he tried to make them. 
    
    He turned to find Ray sitting up, staring at him with an absolutely inexplicable
    look on his face, a shifting melange of what looked like self-consciousness
    and desire, trepidation and raw, exposed need. He wondered what his own
    face looked like, right now. All he could feel was heat, and craving
    for yet more heat. 
    
    Wordlessly, he handed Ray the tube, and took the opportunity while Ray
    studied it to slip out of his boxers and his undershirt. To be naked
    as Ray was naked, with nothing more in the way of artifice or illusion
    or defense to come between them. Chills and waves of warmth chased over
    him indiscriminately, leaving him to sweat and shiver in the perfectly
    temperate air of the room. 
    
    "Neutrogena Norwegian Formula Hand Cream?" Ray asked, and that bare-wire
    look of his had retreated a bit; his eyebrows now drawn together in apparent
    amusement. "Got something going on for Norwegians that you forgot to
    mention, Fraser?" 
    
    It was at once a relief and a disappointment, to take this step away
    from intensity. He raised his own eyebrows. "Are you Norwegian, Ray?"
    
    Ray shrugged, smirked at him. If they hadn't both been in the altogether
    it might have been just like any other day. "Dunno. How far is Norway
    from Poland?" 
    
    He just smiled, because it would only annoy Ray if he told him the answer.
    He moved forward, took up the spot that Ray had vacated in the middle
    of the bedroll, and stretched out on his stomach before his brain had
    a chance to catch up with him. 
    
    "Hey, what gives?" Ray sounded almost distressed. "I thought we were...
    I thought you knew what you wanted--" 
    
    "I do, Ray." If he craned his neck he could see... yes, that definitely
    looked like incipient panic on Ray's face. "I want you." 
    
    "Right right right -- I know that, Fraser; but I thought you wanted...
    that other... the other way." 
    
    Fraser rose up on his elbows, careful not to shift too much pressure
    onto his erection, which felt like it was ready to burn a hole in the
    blanket under him. "Would you prefer another position? I'm certainly
    amenable to--" 
    
    "Not *that*. Your position's... fine, it's great, that's, um...  wow,
    that's a great view. But I thought you wanted to... you know. Do me."
    
    Aha. Yes, he could see now where Ray might have inferred that. "You're
    very strong, Ray," it was the only argument he felt he could speak aloud.
    "Perhaps stronger than you know. I want to feel... that. That's... what
    I want." 
    
    "Oh jeez..." He watched Ray scrub his hands over his face, avoiding his
    bruised eye. "I didn't figure on that, Fraser. I didn't think--" 
    
    "Is the idea distasteful to you, Ray? Because I don't want--"
    
    "No no no--" Ray's hands waved, eloquent in the air. "I'm just... I just
    gotta switch gears, here. Gotta get with the program. I can do this."
    
    Hearing that set off a ripple of anticipation through him, a tightly-wound
    thrum of expectancy that hardened his nipples and pooled in his groin
    with delicious heaviness. "Good. Thank you, Ray." 
    
    Something that looked like it wanted to be a smile flitted over Ray's
    face. There was still panic, there, but it was overshadowed by something
    much warmer, something like... affection. "You're a freak." 
    
    He was helpless to hold back his own smile, after that. "Understood."
    
    He turned his face to the blanket, wiping his smile on the softness under
    his mouth, and lay as still as he could while Ray first knelt beside
    him, then slowly spread his weight over him, pinning him with wiry strength.
    Smooth, warm skin pressed against his back, causing his erection to grind
    deep into the shelter of bedding he'd created. 
    
    Fraser closed his eyes and clutched handfuls of blankets, determined
    to let Ray set his own pace, do this however he wanted. He'd bite his
    tongue before he asked Ray to go faster, though the first, cautious strokes
    down his back, over his buttocks, made him want to lunge, to arch up
    and push out and make Ray use the strength he knew lived just under the
    surface. 
    
    He was floating on a cloud of wool and down and long, hot strokes when
    he felt Ray tense above him, felt fingernails dig briefly into his bottom
    as Ray pushed himself up. 
    
    "Oh *fuck*!"
    
    "Ray?" It was difficult, so very difficult to come back, to bring himself
    out of the warm haze he'd been floating in as Ray touched and stroked
    and held him. His head felt so heavy. "Is there a problem?" 
    
    Ray's breath was hot over the skin of his back, distracting. He tried
    to distance himself from it, to pay proper attention. "Yeah; problem.
    There's a problem, Fraser. We don't have any rubbers, that's the *problem*--"
    
    Oh dear. He felt unutterably foolish, not to have thought of that. Disappointment
    welled up in his throat, tinged at the edges with something that felt
    almost like rage; that he should be so close, that this should be taken
    away from him now. It seemed... unacceptable. That prompted him to speak.
    "Ray, I understand if this isn't sufficient for you, but I can assure
    you that, according to all of my annual physical examinations, I'm completely
    free of disease..." 
    
    Ray sighed against his back, and he couldn't help but lift up to the
    brush of air.. "I know, Fraser -- I get the same damn tests you do every
    year and I'm fine, and yeah, it's not like I've been dating anybody but
    my own hand either. But I know you, and you've got, like, those principle
    things, and I know you'll get all messed up about it--" 
    
    "Ray."
    
    "What?"
    
    This was always, as ever, the peril of this situation -- his heart and
    mind and body engaged, and his 'principle things' vanished as if they'd
    never been. It should frighten him, or shame him, perhaps; but at the
    moment all he could feel was the sweet freedom of being enslaved by his
    own passions. "It isn't... it wouldn't be the first time we endangered
    our lives in a wildly bizarre way." 
    
    Ray chuckled, sending shivers through him. "No, it wouldn't. You got
    that one right." A skim of knuckles over his shoulder blade, sliding
    down and down and finally trailing off over his left buttock. "You sure?
    I mean, I know it's nuts, but are you sure?" 
    
    It was hard to get the words out, when all he wanted to do was spread
    himself wider, *show* Ray his assent. "Oh, yes, Ray. Quite sure." 
    
    And he was.
    
    ****************************** 
    
    He could do this. He *could* do this. He could make it good, he hoped.
    Please... 
    
    The little demon on his shoulder (or else it was the angel, he couldn't
    keep track of them in the noise anymore), wondered whether this might
    be just another post-ass-kicking press junket in Fraser's 'Let's Reassure
    Ray' campaign, but he shook it off. Nobody'd go that far, take it that
    far...  nobody'd take it up the ass just to make a guy feel better about
    himself. Not even Fraser would do that. No way. 
    
    Which meant they'd just moved into some seriously new geography.
    
    "You really want me to do this??" He had to ask, had to make sure one
    more time, because there was no room to make a mistake, here; this was...
    too big. Too big a deal. 
    
    Underneath him Fraser stretched, arched, that wide, solid body looking
    like someone had stolen all the bones out of it. It made his mouth dry.
    "Yes, Ray," the answer came so soft and dreamy that it didn't sound like
    Fraser. "I want you to... I want it to last a long time." 
    
    Oh yeah. Like *that* was gonna happen. Of course Fraser couldn't ask
    for anything *normal*, anything possible -- but what did he expect? Just
    because Fraser was a guy, he was gonna say something like 'I want you
    to come in five seconds and then pass out on me, that'd be good, Ray.'
    Right. 
    
    Every muscle in his body tensed, stretched until it was humming. That
    was not good. Ray took a deep, deep breath, wiped the sweat off his face,
    and tried to force back the shakes. 
    
    He could *do* this.
    
    His hand slipped the first time he tried to slide his index finger inside
    Fraser. Skittered right off him, leaving a snail trail of lotion halfway
    across his ass. Well, shit. Okay, okay. He rubbed in the lotion, like
    he'd meant to do that, you know, foreplay, and tried again. Got a little
    bit in that time, up to a knuckle, then two, and damn, if it didn't feel
    tight in there. Really tight. Like how was anything bigger than that
    supposed to fit in there? And why would Fraser want it to? 
    
    When Fraser'd been licking him up (glory be, just the thought of it made
    his own ass clench), he'd thought yeah, he could go for more, go for
    something that'd sink deeper, stay longer, be stronger. What might have
    seemed kind of gross, and not at all a good idea -- if he hadn't just
    been licked practically out of his skin -- had suddenly seemed okay.
    Better than okay. And maybe if it'd been Fraser doing him, it would've
    been different. Fraser'd said he read stuff, maybe he'd know what he
    was doing. 
    
    Ray didn't. That tight little hidden hole wasn't anything like the warm
    wet places he'd known before, where you just slid around some and poked
    here and there and then slipped right home. This looked like it might
    take some work. He had a ways to go, here, and he'd stalled out at the
    gate. 
    
    He shifted uncomfortably, using the excuse of lubing up again to give
    himself some time to get his act together. He wanted to do it. Fraser
    wanted him to do it. So how come he couldn't do it? 
    
    Then Fraser did something kind of amazing. He shifted around, looked
    over his shoulder. Guess not having any bones let you do stuff like that.
    Then he grinned, sort of, looked like his cheekbones stretched, like
    he was trying to hold something in, and said, "I wouldn't do this with
    anyone but you." 
    
    No, he guessed he wouldn't. Hell, Fraser hardly took his coat off for
    most people, let alone stripped down, spread out and asked to be... 
    fucked. Fraser wouldn't do this with anybody but him. 
    
    If he had his way, Fraser never would.
    
    "Cuz I'm not most people," Ray said, reaching out to cup the back of
    Fraser's head in his hand. 
    
    "Exactly," Fraser said, nodding, nudging his head into Ray's hand. 
    
    And for some reason, that helped. That helped a lot. This wasn't something
    they were doing because they were out in middle of the wilderness with
    a bunch of dogs and nobody else to talk to. 
    
    This wasn't really a place you could get to by accident. 
    
    This time, his fingers slid in high, and if it wasn't easy, it wasn't
    hard, either. And Fraser helped. Told him when to move, how. Told him
    with words and with his body, showed him in all kinds of ways that it
    didn't hurt, that it felt good to him. The words dropped off after a
    bit, after Ray found one place in particular that Fraser seemed to like
    a lot, and then he only had noises to go on, and the subtle shift of
    Fraser's hips. 
    
    He could see the sheen of sweat on his back, see the muscles underneath
    get tight, then loosen up, depending on what his fingers were doing inside.
    He started to feel like he was getting in deep, really getting inside
    him, more than just inside his body. He felt like Fraser had opened up
    wide for him, inside and out, given him something most people only got
    to dream about. 
    
    "Steady, okay?" he whispered, sliding a palmful of lotion down his dick,
    sloppy and slippery. "I'm gonna try it." 
    
    Fraser nodded, spreading his thighs further apart.
    
    Ray swallowed his heart back down out of his throat and grabbed at his
    dick, which suddenly acted like it didn't care much about waiting, like
    this was good enough, he'd just look at those thighs, and that ass and
    just come on his hand, okay? 
    
    No. Not okay. Worth waiting for, really.
    
    And then he was doing it, joining them together, fitting himself inside
    that tight, hot place, and it wasn't hard at all, it felt...  right as
    rain. He heard Fraser gulping down deep breaths beneath him, and he stilled,
    about halfway in. 
    
    "You all right?" he asked, licking Fraser's shoulder.
    
    "Hmmmmm," Fraser answered. "Yeah, ooof, keep going."
    
    So he did. He braced himself on Fraser's back, grabbed hold, and with
    a twist of the hips and a little bit of muscle, he was in. In so far
    he could feel Fraser's ass against his stomach. In deep enough that he
    knew it would only take one thrust to send him screaming over the edge.
    
    "Don't move, don't move, don't move," he chanted, and he could *feel*
    Fraser reaching for control. God, gotta love those Mounties. Nothing
    fazed 'em. 
    
    They were both shaking, he realized. Fraser in long shudders, himself
    in little shivers. He took a deep breath and dropped his weight down
    on Fraser's back, hoping he could distract himself a little from the
    amazing grip Fraser's body had on his dick. He hadn't spent too much
    time thinking about it, but he guessed he'd thought it'd be like being
    inside a woman, only weirder. 
    
    Well, it was. But it was weird in a good, fucking tight way, and it was
    better because it was Fraser he was inside, his partner, his friend.
    Somebody he trusted. Somebody he...  loved. 
    
    He couldn't be still anymore. Couldn't think that, couldn't suddenly
    know it with everything he had in his heart, and be still anymore. He
    rocked back, pulling out a little, then slid further in. Under him, Fraser
    groaned and thrust back, trying to get him deeper. 
    
    That thrust broke the dam, and taking his time was the first thing to
    go in the flood. He raked his body up, then back, feeling Fraser's hot
    skin slide across his nipples, feeling the swells of Fraser's ass brush
    against his balls when he shoved in again, harder this time. He made
    a sound, some sound, something loud and guttural and out of control and
    embarrassing as hell, but then Fraser grunted back at him in the same
    language -- Fraser talked his talk and met him halfway and tossed his
    head like he was crazy with it; and then it was all good, nothing but
    goodness, nothing but hot-tight-slick-fucking-*good*. 
    
    He was doing this. He was *doing* it. *They* were doing it -- this was
    both of them right here and now, deep, so deep in it. He didn't think
    it could *get* any deeper but then Fraser grabbed his hand and squeezed,
    and dragged it down under the crush of both their bodies. He went for
    Fraser's cock but that wasn't it, wasn't what Fraser wanted because instead
    Fraser put his hand down low on his belly. And at first he didn't get
    it, but then Fraser's hand over his *pushed hard* and he felt it, felt
    himself there -- faintly felt under layers of skin and muscle and Fraser--
    felt himself moving, in and out, all the way, deep. 
    
    The moan he let go of then sounded loud enough to rattle the walls, but
    there was no way in hell he could stop it, so he just rode it out. He
    pressed hard into Fraser's belly, shoved hard into Fraser's body, then
    squeezed his eyes shut and let his head drop down to roll and rub on
    Fraser's shoulder, living with the strange pain of perfection that told
    him that, now that he'd been half of what they were together, he'd never
    again really be all of himself. 
    
    Then Fraser *rippled* around him, and before he knew it he was speeding
    up, rocking forward with pretty much all of that strength Fraser had
    asked for. Fraser took it, gave it back, holding his own steady ground,
    a firm foundation for Ray to build on. 
    
    He'd have liked it to last forever. He didn't ever want to leave. Even
    as his body plowed ahead, heedless, his heart wanted to stay there, just
    as they were, until sometime in the summer, when the days were long and
    sunlight would come in those dirty windows and they would still be there,
    stuck together, sweaty, naked in every possible definition of the word.
    But as his body took over, as he went from thrusting to slamming, and
    Fraser's noises went from groans to shouts, he knew he'd just have to
    live on the memory of it. Nothing this good lasted forever. He'd just
    have to remember it. 
    
    Or else they'd just have to do it again.
    
    ***************************************
    
    Daylight. *Mid-morning* light, actually. Imagine that. Fraser blinked
    rapidly. 
    
    Why was it that things which seemed so inevitable, so natural in the
    dark of night seemed so different when viewed, not in moonlight, not
    in firelight, but in the stark bright light of day? 
    
    And of course, because he'd been so very, very sure of what he was doing,
    so invested and certain that this path and no other was the one he was
    intended to take, waking to an inchoate rush of panic and insecurity
    caused no small measure of consternation. It wasn't that he doubted himself,
    his own feelings. No, once he set a course, the course remained set.
    But Ray... How would *Ray* feel?. 
    
    Fraser managed to disentangle himself from the violent sprawl of their
    mingled limbs without waking Ray, and rose gingerly to his feet. He felt
    sluggish and heavy, and yet, paradoxically, like he was floating. He
    made his careful way to the bathroom, and refrained from any indulgence
    in reflection until he was safely inside the tiny enclosure of the shower,
    with a closed door between himself and the inspiration for his current
    predicament. 
    
    The hot water blasted away the worst of the haze from his mind, and if
    the steam was a little too romantic, perhaps a little too reminiscent
    of hot flesh and cold air and new discoveries, well, he was the only
    one in here, after all. 
    
    The dreaded Morning After. He'd heard jokes about it, and had never thought
    them particularly funny. He found them even less funny now. 
    
    The Morning After Ray. If he himself had fallen asleep in a daze of satiated
    certainty and woken to apprehension, he could only conclude that the
    chances were quite high that Ray (who had mumbled sweetly to him as they'd
    finally drifted off, nonsense phrases of affection and gratitude that
    had somehow managed to be simultaneously poignant and funny) could possibly
    wake to... regret. 
    
    Ray might very well regret what they'd done. He'd do well to prepare
    himself for it. Nothing had been promised to him, and he could make no
    claims. He *must* remember that. 
    
    He had to face the possibility that as suddenly as the whirlwind had
    come up, it could dissipate, leaving him disheveled, disoriented. He
    had put Ray in a position of terrible vulnerability -- a stranger in
    a cold, strange place -- and then placed himself in the path of his confusion,
    his pain. Ray might not thank him for it in the sober light of day. 
    
    Ray might tell him that they could never do such a thing again.
    
    Ray might choose to pretend it never happened, cover the closeness of
    their connection with a bluff camouflage of friendliness or surliness
    or silence. 
    
    Ray might leave.
    
    Ray *could* leave, go back to the comparative warmth of Chicago, to the
    work he knew. He could decide they'd had adventure enough. 
    
    Indeed.
    
    A dark, fierce sense of dismay welled up from within -- it was familiar,
    as was his automatic and instinctive urge to refuse to give in to it,
    refuse to believe. Fraser closed his eyes and leaned against the wall
    of the shower, and tried desperately to wrest the grasp of his need away
    from the object of desire, from the ideals and fantasies he seemed helpless
    against, from... Ray. 
    
    He spoke ruthless truths to himself as he cleaned all traces of their
    coupling from his body. With all his heart he wanted to keep himself
    as he was, wanted to hoard the trace and scent of Ray in every crevice,
    so there was a savage and terrible satisfaction in scrubbing, a lesson
    in microcosm of the sacrifices he'd brought it upon himself to make.
    
    By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, Fraser felt quite different
    from the man who'd stepped in. He was calm and collected; a bit stiff
    in the joints, perhaps, but that only served to remind him to maintain
    his posture. He was quite prepared to contend with whatever destiny awaited
    him. 
    
    He walked to his pack with swift, economical steps, and dressed quickly
    in the thickest, warmest clothes he could find -- because his prior experience,
    what little he'd had, reminded him that being calm and collected, being
    *prepared*, would do nothing at all to provide any relief from the terrible,
    terrible cold. 
    
    It had occurred to him that it might be best if he were outside the cabin
    when Ray woke, in order to spare him that first, difficult conversation.
    Consequently he checked on Ray frequently, studying the sprawled form
    (only to look for signs of wakefulness, he insisted), and to tug up the
    covers that Ray kept flinging away, despite the chill in the room. 
    
    He was pulling the blankets gently up over Ray's shoulder when Ray's
    eyes opened, all at once, both of them -- even the bruised one. His heart
    constricted in one quick and terrified cramp and his breath caught, but
    it was only for a moment before he was back where he needed to be --
    calm. Controlled. Prepared. 
    
    For anything, he thought.
    
    But Ray's initial, brilliant smile, *that* he wasn't prepared for. It
    loosened his knees in a seriously alarming way and he shifted on his
    feet, trying to put some starch in his legs before he collapsed on Ray
    in a stunned and boneless heap. 
    
    "Fraser," despite the smile, Ray's tone was definitely annoyed, "you
    keep covering me up, and it's hot as blazes in here -- you tryin' to
    cook me, or something?" Ray didn't wait for a reply but simply hooked
    an arm around his neck and tugged him down, down to where it was warm
    and piquant and full of that smell he thought he'd have to give up forever;
    kissed him softly and sleepily on his cheek, chin, lips, and let him
    go. 
    
    "Good morning, Ray." It was all he could think of to say. It would have
    to do. 
    
    Ray stretched luxuriantly, yawning until Fraser saw the smooth pink of
    his uvula, a sight that, oddly, made his heart skitter in his chest.
    "That it is, Fraser; I can get behind that. Good morning. Yeah." 
    
    Fraser blinked until the sting in his eyes dissipated. He cleared his
    throat. "If you stay there much longer, I'll have to say 'good afternoon'."
    
    Ray smiled at him again and reached out -- only to pat the nearest leg,
    but still, Ray reached for him -- and shrugged. "Uh-huh. Night of wild
    nookie can do that to a guy, you know. It just... uh... means it was
    good. So don't ask me which way North is today, okay?" 
    
    Ray was correct -- it *was* warm in here. Very warm. He was sweating,
    and he couldn't begin to imagine how he could have thought it was cold.
    He smiled back at Ray, and somewhere very far off he heard ice cracking.
    
    "That's fine, Ray. Of course I won't."
    
    "Great. We probably won't end up in Baja, then."
    
    After his shower Ray seemed more quiet, much less playful, but Fraser
    had already used up his stock of apprehension so he was content to wait,
    lose himself in the chores of getting them geared up and prepared for
    the journey. To his consternation he discovered that Ray was right --
    he forgot small things, and occasionally larger things, and though his
    mind was on his tasks it somehow seemed that his mind was not anywhere
    near as reliable as it should be. By the time he had everything ready
    to go, he wouldn't have taken a gentleman's bet that they wouldn't be
    heading towards Baja after all. 
    
    "You know, I've been beating myself all up over this."
    
    He turned from the sled and saw Ray, startlingly close since Fraser hadn't
    heard a single thing. Ray was dressed and bundled for the journey with
    his pack dangling from one hand, and in the soft light his bruises stood
    out clearly in a way that only seemed to highlight his good looks. Ray
    was looking out over the snow meditatively, thoughtfully, and in that
    moment Fraser knew that it was too late -- if he'd thought it was at
    all possible to pull himself back from this man, it was altogether too
    late. The only parts of himself that mattered were already given. 
    
    He dragged his attention away from memorizing the sight of Ray in the
    snow and brought himself back to Ray's words. "What about this?" 
    
    Ray didn't look at him. "All of it. Wasn't even sure I should be *thinking*
    about it, let alone wanting to do anything about it. Had these little
    voices inside, fighting about it." 
    
    Ah. *That* this. He worked to keep his voice steady. "How odd."
    
    Faint smile on Ray's bruised, beautiful face. "Yeah, well, you probably
    never had to worry about little voices." 
    
    "You'd be surprised."
    
    Ray shifted, then, but still didn't look at him, as if staring off into
    the distance was the only way he could have this conversation. "And it's
    okay? You're okay with it?" 
    
    A blatant invitation for him to speak things that were best unspoken.
    He swallowed, checked himself a little before he offered his answer.
    "Quite okay. Are you?" 
    
    "Yeah, yeah, I'm good."
    
    "I'm glad." He was. So very glad that he was concerned about what might
    be showing on his face in this moment, but since Ray still didn't look
    at him, he supposed it didn't really matter. 
    
    "So, um, Fraser, what happens if we don't find this Franklin guy. Or,
    wait, what happens if we *do*?" 
    
    There was no way to answer that without revealing a lot more than he
    wanted to right now. "It's a little early to be thinking about that,
    Ray. We've got a long way to go yet." 
    
    "Yeah? Cool."
    
    He couldn't help smiling, then. It gave him the courage to push a little.
    "Have you been thinking about... afterward?" 
    
    Ray shifted again, now apparently absorbed by the grey winter sky. "You
    mean after our adventure?" 
    
    "Yes."
    
    "Um, yeah, I was thinking about going home."
    
    "Oh?" Steady. He was steady.
    
    "Or really, about maybe *not* going home."
    
    "Oh." *Steady*. Still.
    
    Or, he was until Ray looked at him, until the direct burn and flare of
    blue speared into him, penetrating, as surely as Ray had penetrated his
    body. There was honesty there, and need, and he responded to it as he'd
    responded last night -- gladly, helplessly, thankfully; as perhaps he
    would always respond. 
    
    "Thought, you know, if you were gonna stay up here, maybe, I don't know,
    maybe I'd stay awhile, too." 
    
    There was nothing for him to do but answer that honesty with his own.
    "I'd like that." 
    
    Ray's eyes were bright; with amusement, with relief, with something that
    looked familiar and unfamiliar -- joy, a solitary kind of joy, except
    there were two of them, now. "Yeah?" 
    
    He nodded. "Yeah."
    
    Ray nodded back, smiling again, still suffused with that brilliance that
    worked in odd harmony with the bruises and stubble on his face -- somebody's
    dissolute angel, pure and radiant and mercurial, fallen to the temptations
    of the flesh. 
    
    When Ray tossed him his pack he caught it easily, and secured it to the
    sled. He turned back to find Ray studying him -- still smiling, but with
    a rather wicked and acquisitive gleam in his eye that warmed him right
    through, that brought a pleased and disconcerted flush to his cheeks.
    Regardless of the fact that he was standing knee-deep in snow. 
    
    Not 'somebody's' angel. His.
    
    Very much his.
    
    ********************************
    
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